The helmet now an hive for bees becomes,
And hilts of swords may serve for spiders' looms;
     Sharp pikes may make
     Teeth for a rake;
And the keen blade, th'arch enemy of life,
Shall be degraded to a pruning knife.
     The rustic spade
     Which first was made
For honest agriculture, shall retake
Its primitive employment, and forsake
     The rampires steep
     And trenches deep.
Tame conies in our brazen guns shall breed,
Or gentle doves their young ones there shall feed.
     In musket barrels
     Mice shall raise quarrels
For their quarters.  The ventriloquious drum,
Like lawyers in vacations, shall be dumb.
     Now all recruits,
     But those of fruits,
Shall be forgot; and th'unarmed soldier
Shall only boast of what he did whilere,
     In chimney's ends
     Among his friends.

His golden locks Time hath to silver turned.
O Time too swift! Oh swiftness never ceasing!
His youth 'gainst Time and Age hath ever spurned,
But spurned in vain; youth waneth by increasing.
Beauty, strength, youth are flowers but fading seen;
Duty, faith, love are roots and ever green.

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees,
And lover's sonnets turn to holy psalms.
A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers which are Age's alms.
But though from Court to cottage he depart,
His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

And when he saddest sits in homely cell,
He'll teach his swains this carol for a song:
Blest be the hearts that wish my Sovereign well.
Curst be the soul that think her any wrong.
Goddess, allow this aged man his right
To be your bedesman now that was your knight.