by Robert Herrick

ONLY a little more
       I have to write
       Then I'll give o'er,
And bid the world good-night.

'Tis but a flying minute
       That I must stay,
       Or linger in it ;
And then I must away.

O time that cut'st down all !
       And scarce leav'st here
Of any men that were.

How many lie forgot
       In vaults beneath ?
       And piecemeal rot
Without a fame in death ?

Behold this living stone
       I rear for me,
       Ne'er to be thrown
Down, envious Time, by thee.

Pillars let some set up,
       If so they please :
       Here is my hope
And my Pyramides.

Herrick, Robert. Works of Robert Herrick. vol I.
Alfred Pollard, ed.
London, Lawrence & Bullen, 1891. 103-104.

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