This grace vouchsase me for the rhymes I write.
If any last, nor perish quick and quite,
Lord, let them be
My little images, to stand for me
When I may stand no longer in Thy sight:
Like those old statues of the King who said,
“Carve me in that which needs nor sleep nor bread;
Let diorite pray,
A King of stone, for this poor King of clay
Who wearies often and must soon be dead!”