“What booteth it to have been rich alive? 
What to be great? what to be gracious? 
When after death no token doth survive
Of former being in this mortall hous,
But sleepes in dust dead and inglorious, 355
Like beast, whose breath but in his nostrels is,
And hath no hope of happinesse or blis.

“How manie great ones may remembred be,
Which in their daies most famouslie did florish,
Of whome no word we heare, nor signe now see, 360
But as things wipt out with a sponge to perishe,
Because they living cared not to cherishe
No gentle wits, through pride or covetize,
Which might their names for ever memorize!

“Provide therefore, ye Princes, whilst ye live, 365
That of the Muses ye may friended bee,
Which unto men eternitie do give;
For they be daughters of Dame Memorie
And love, the father of Eternitie,
And do those men in golden thrones repose, 370
Whose merits they to glorifie do chose.

“The seven-fold yron gates of grislie Hell,
And horrid house of sad Proserpina,
They able are with power of mightie spell
To breake, and thence the soules to bring awaie 375
Out of dread darkenesse to eternall day,
And them immortall make which els would die
In foule forgetfulnesse, and nameles lie.

“So whilome raised they the puissant brood
Of golden-girt Alcmena, for great merite, 380
Out of the dust to which the Oetaean wood
Had him consum’d, and spent his vitall spirite,
To highest heaven, where now he doth inherite
All happinesse in Hebes silver bowre,
Chosen to be her dearest paramoure. 385

“So raisde they eke faire Ledaes warlick twinnes. 
And interchanged life unto them lent,
That, when th’one dies, th’other then beginnes
To shew in heaven his brightnes orient;
And they, for pittie of the sad wayment*, 390
Which Orpheus for Eurydice did make,
Her back againe to life sent for his sake.
  [* Wayment, lament.]

“So happie are they, and so fortunate,
Whom the Pierian sacred sisters love,
That freed from bands of impacable** fate, 395
And power of death, they live for aye above,
Where mortall wreakes their blis may not remove: 
But with the gods, for former verities meede,
On nectar and ambrosia do feede.
  [* Impacable, unappeasable.]

“For deeds doe die, how ever noblie donne, 400
And thoughts of men do as themselves decay;
But wise wordes taught in numbers for to runne,
Recorded by the Muses, live for ay;
Ne may with storming showers be washt away,
Ne bitter-breathing windes with harmfull blast, 405
Nor age, nor envie, shall them ever wast.