Ah, but to _die_, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice: To be imprison’d in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world; or to be worse than worst Of those, that lawless and uncertain thoughts Imagine howling! ’tis too horrible! The weariest and most loathed worldly life That age, ache, penury, imprisonment, Can lay on nature, is a paradise To what we fear of _death_. _Shakspere._ O harmless _Death_! whom still the valiant brave, The wise expect, the sorrowful invite; And all the good embrace, who know the Grave, A short dark passage to eternal light. _Sir W. Davenant._ This world _death’s_ region is, the other, life’s: And here it should be one of our first strifes, So to front _death_, as each might judge us past it: For good men but see _death_, the others taste it. _Ben Jonson._ The glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate: _Death_ lays his icy hands on kings: Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield, They tame but one another still. Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to _death_. The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds, Upon _death’s_ purple altar now See where the victor victim bleeds: All heads must come To the cold tomb: Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. _Shirley._ He patient show’d us the wise course to steer, A candid censor, and a friend sincere; He taught us how to live; and (Oh! too high The price of knowledge,) taught us how to _die_. _Tickell._ That I must _die_, it is my only comfort; _Death_ is the privilege of human nature, And life without it were not worth our taking; Thither the poor, the prisoner, and the mourner, Fly for relief, and lay their burdens down. Come then, and take me into thy cold arms, Thou meagre shade; here let me breathe my last. Charmed with my Father’s pity and forgiveness, More than if angels tuned their golden viols, And sung a requiem to my parting soul. _Rowe._