’Twere something yet to live again among
The gentle youth beloved, and where I learn’d
My art, be there remember’d for my song.
52
Who takes the census of the living dead,
Ere the day come when memory shall o’ercrowd
The kingdom of their fame, and for that proud
And airy people find no room nor stead?
Ere hoarding Time, that ever thrusteth back
The fairest treasures of his ancient store,