Born I was to be old,
And for to die here;
After that, in the mould
Long for to lie here.
But before that day comes,
Still I be bousing;
For I know, in the tombs
There's no carousing.
More verses by Robert Herrick
- Kissing Usury
- To His Peculiar Friend, Mr John Wicks
- His Content In The Country
- An Ode To Sir Clipsby Crew
- His Winding-Sheet