Not bright stone, nor the tombs they paint with gold
 For kings, shall live past this, my strong rhyme;
 But you shall shine more bright in what this holds
 Than stone not swept that's smeared by that slut, Time.
 When war makes waste, and knocks down man-shaped urns,
 And broils root out the work of carved stone kind,
 Not the sword of Mars nor war's quick fire shall burn
 The mark of you that still lives on in mind.
 'Gainst death and ire that wants to see naught be
 Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
 In too the eyes of all the time to be
 That watch this world out to its end and doom.
   So, till the Judge shall tell you once more rise,
   You live in this, and dwell in some one's eyes.

                                -- Will the Bard