Will be the final goal of all,

To pangs of nature, sins of will,

Defects of doubt and taints of blood;

That nothing walks with aimless feet;

That not one life shall be destroy’d,

Or cast as rubbish to the void,

When God hath made the pile complete.

That not a worm is cloven in vain;

That not a moth with vain desire

Is shrivell’d in a fruitless fire,