By John Donne

I sing the progress of a deathlesse Soul,
Whom fate, which God made, but doth not control,
Plac'd in most shapes, all times before the law
Yok'd us, and when, and since, in this I sing.
And the great world to his aged evening;
From infant morne, through manly noone I draw.
What the gold Chaldee or Silver Persian saw,
Greek brass or Roman iron, is in this one;
A work t'outweare Seth's pillars, brick and stone,
And (holy writt excepted) made to yield to none.


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