I sing the progress of a deathless soul

I sing the progress of a deathless soul,

Whom Fate, with God made, but doth not control,

Plac'd in most shapes; all times before the law

Yoked us, and when, and since, in this I sing.

And the great world to his aged evening;

From infant morn, through manly noon I draw.

What the gold Chaldee, of silver Persian saw,

Greek brass, or Roman iron, is in this one;

A work t'outwear Seths pillars, brick and stone,

And (holy writs excepted) made to yield to none.