Set up on high thy pleasure: so to live
Were to be quit of chance.—That thou amiss
Shouldst cast thy fluttering days were piteous-blind,
Seeing they are all, and veriest all: fulfil
Thy days, then, with a high felicity.
Too soon shall Death sweep up thy militant will;
And bind thee in the dark. Yet heed thou this:
Tho’ thou snuff out; a thing that was; yet still,
The texture of thy thought, the workmanship
Of hand or utterant lip,