Bid to Think of Fame

Rather than flighty Fame give me
A bird on wrist or puss on knee.
Death is not to be charm'd by rhymes
Nor shov'd away to after-times.
Ot maiden's or of poet's song
Did anything on earth sound long ?
Why then should ever mortal care
About what floats in empty air ?
All we devise and all we know
Is better kept for use than show.
Perhaps we deem ourselves the wise,
Other may see with clearer eyes.
Little I care for Fame or Death,
Or groan for one gasp more of breath.
Death, in approaching me, looks grim,
I in return but smile at him.