Fear no more the heat o' th' sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages.
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash
Nor th' all dreaded thunder-stone.
Fear not slander, censure rash,
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan.
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to this and come to dust.
