In all the days and ages gone by,
    How do we record the time,
It seems therein hereof to fly,
    And freezes, only embossed in rhyme.
To live forever and plus that day,
    Is not so impossible in truth,
Though we can scarce predict our own way,
    Angels write our lives for flute.
Envy will these tales incur,
    Such that the future long for past,
And we, the passed, lie demure,
    Dice of present lying cast.
Toward an even field of life,
In tomes that, to a word, all strife.