The March of Time

Who hath used what I have used?
Whose will they be when I am gone?
In the opera of this World,
I live, I die, a passing song.

What others have owned, now do I own;
What I do own will from me pass;
And I will fade, and pass away—
A fleeting shadow of the past.

Such is life, such is fame:
Each of us another name
That comes on stage, plays a part,
And quickly from this world departs.