Classic Poem

Death no respecter of p'ersons

Death, he doth make. no diferance
Between the pesant, and the prince

Vain beauty he doth not respect
The crys of youth, he doth reject

It overtakes the young, and swift
And from the rich, receives no gift

It makes, the strongest hart, to yeeld
And where itt comes, still wins. the feild

His arows first, or last, they shall
Reach unto all, both great, and small

He shrinks not from the statly crown
But in the dust, he throws itt down

No sort, no quality, or age
But must come forth, for to engage

And graple with this enemy
Who will att last, lifes knot unty

But yet this. foe, hath lost his sting
And unto thine no harm, doth bring

Whilst hee o'recomes them in the strife
Hee lets them into endlese life

And to the fill enjoyment of
The object of ther deerest love

I will stile thee, (if it be soe)
No more, a tirant, and a foe

But thou shalt be, my welcome guest
A freind, most greatly in request