I sing the progress of a deathless soul,
Whom Fate, with God made, but doth not control,
Plac'd in most shapes; all times before the law
Yoked us, and when, and since, in this I sing.

And the great world to his aged evening;
From infant morn, through manly noon I draw.
What the gold Chaldee, of silver Persian saw,
Greek brass, or Roman iron, is in this one;
A work t'outwear Seths pillars, brick and stone,
And (holy writs excepted) made to yield to none.