Paradise Regained (1671)

What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones, The labor of an age in piled stones, Or that his hallowed relics should be hid Under a star-y-pointing pyrami…

And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year.