Whither the generations that succeed
Press forward famish’d for their turn to feed.
Nay, or before your time self-surfeited,
Wait not for nature’s signal to be gone,
But with the potion of the spotted weed,
That peradventure wild beside your door
For some such friendly purpose cheaply grows,
Anticipate too tardy nature’s call:
Ev’n as one last great Roman of them all
Dismiss’d himself betimes into the sum