Since nature’s work be good, and death doth come As nature’s work, why should we _fear_ to die? Since _fear_ is vain, but when it may presume, Why should we _fear_ that which we cannot fly? _Fear_ is more pain than is the pain it _fears_, Disarming human minds of native might; While each conceit an ugly figure bears, Which were not ill well viewed in reason’s light. _Sir P. Sidney._ Persuade them then, _Fearless_ to be resolved to die like men; For want of such a resolution stings At point of death, and dreadful horror brings Ev’n to the soul; ’cause, wanting preparation, She dies, despairing of her own salvation. Yea, and moreover this full well know I, He that’s at any time _afraid_ to die, Is in weak case, and whatsoe’er he saith, Hath but a wavering and a feeble faith. _George Wither._ _Fear_ on guilt attends, and deeds of darkness; The virtuous breast ne’er knows it. _Havard._ Some, for _fear_ of want, Want all their lives; and others ev’ry day, For _fear_ of dying, suffer worse than death. Ah! from your bosoms banish if you can That fatal guest, I mean the demon _fear_, That trembles at impossible events, Lest aged Atlas should resign his load, And Heaven’s eternal battlements rush down. Is there an evil worse than _fear_ itself? And what avails it, that indulgent Heav’n From mortal eyes has wrapt the woes to come, If we, ingenious to torment ourselves, Grow pale at hideous fictions of our own? Enjoy the present, nor with needless cares Of what may spring from blind Misfortune’s womb Appal the surest hour that life bestows; Serene and master of yourself, prepare For what may come, and leave the rest to heaven. _Armstrong._ God’s altar grasping with an eager hand, _Fear_, the wild-visaged, pale, eye-starting wretch, Sure-refuged, hears his hot-pursuing fiends Yell at vain distance. Soon refreshed from Heaven, He calms the throb and tempest of his heart, His countenance settles; a soft solemn bliss Swims in his eye--his swimming eye upraised: And faith’s whole armour glitters on his limbs! And thus transfigured with a dreadless awe, A solemn hush of soul, meek he beholds All things of terrible seeming. _Coleridge._ Happy beyond description he Who _fears_ the Lord his God, Who hears His threats with holy awe And trembles at His rod. Let _fear_ and love, most holy God, Possess this soul of mine. Then shall I worship Thee aright, And taste Thy joys divine. _Needham._