Behold his funeral appears,
Nor widow’s sighs, nor orphan’s tears,
Wont at such times each heart to pierce,
Attend the progress of his hearse.
And what of that? his friends may say,
He had those honors in his day.
True to his profit and his pride,
He made them weep before he died.

He shall have a noble memory.

When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.

Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!

True is it that we have seen better days.