Dum vivo, prosum
An aged tree, whose sappe is almoste spente,
Yet yeeldes her boughes, to warme us in the coulde:
And while it growes, her offalles still be lente,
But being falne, it turneth into moulde,
And doth no good: soe ere to grave wee fall,
Wee maie do good, but after none at all.