Nothing more true than not to trust your senses;
And yet what are your other evidences?
III.
For me, I know nought; nothing I deny,
Admit—reject—contemn: and what know you,
Except perhaps that you were born to die?
And both may after all turn out untrue.
An age may come, Font of Eternity,
When nothing shall be either old or new.
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep,