William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

BEAUTY, truth, and rarity,

Grace in all simplicity,

Here enclos’d in cinders lie.

Death is now the phœnix’ nest;

And the turtle’s loyal breast

To eternity doth rest,

Leaving no posterity:

’Twas not their infirmity,

It was married chastity.

Truth may seem, but cannot be;

Beauty brag, but ’tis not she;

Truth and beauty buried be.

To this urn let those repair

That are either true or fair;

For these dead birds sigh a prayer.