Death, thou'rt a cordial old and rare:
Look, how compounded, with what care!
Time got his wrinkles reaping thee
Sweet herbs from all antiquity.
 
David to thy distillage went,
Keats, and Gotama excellent,
Omar Khayyam, and Chaucer bright,
And Shakspere for a king-delight.
 
Then, Time, let not a drop be spilt:
Hand me the cup whene'er thou wilt:
'Tis thy rich stirrup-cup to me;
I'll drink it down right smilingly.