He boasts no sense can after death remain; } Yet makes himself a part of life again, } As if some other _he_ could feel the pain. } If, while we live, this thought molest his head, What wolf or vulture shall devour me dead? He wastes his days in idle grief, nor can Distinguish 'twixt the body and the man; But thinks himself can still himself survive, And, what when dead he feels not, feels alive. Then he repines that he was born to die, Nor knows in death there is no other _he_, No living _he_ remains his grief to vent, And o'er his senseless carcase to lament. If, after death, 'tis painful to be torn By birds, and beasts, then why not so to burn, Or drenched in floods of honey to be soaked, Embalmed to be at once preserved and choked; Or on an airy mountain's top to lie, Exposed to cold and heaven's inclemency; Or crowded in a tomb, to be opprest With monumental marble on thy breast? But to be snatched from all the household joys, From thy chaste wife, and thy dear prattling boys, Whose little arms about thy legs are cast, And climbing for a kiss prevent their mother's haste, Inspiring secret pleasure through thy breast; Ah! these shall be no more; thy friends opprest Thy care and courage now no more shall free; Ah! wretch, thou criest, ah! miserable me! One woeful day sweeps children, friends, and wife, And all the brittle blessings of my life! Add one thing more, and all thou say'st is true; Thy want and wish of them is vanished too; Which, well considered, were a quick relief To all thy vain imaginary grief: For thou shalt sleep, and never wake again, And, quitting life, shall quit thy loving pain. But we, thy friends, shall all those sorrows find, } Which in forgetful death thou leav'st behind; } No time shall dry our tears, nor drive thee from out mind. } The worst that can befal thee, measured right, Is a sound slumber, and a long good-night. Yet thus the fools, that would be thought the wits, Disturb their mirth with melancholy fits; When healths go round, and kindly brimmers flow, Till the fresh garlands on their foreheads glow, They whine, and cry, let us make haste to live, Short are the joys that human life can give. Eternal preachers, that corrupt the draught, And pall the god, that never thinks, with thought; Idiots with all that thought, to whom the worst Of death, is want of drink, and endless thirst, Or any fond desire as vain as these. For, even in sleep, the body, wrapt in ease, Supinely lies, as in the peaceful grave; And, wanting nothing, nothing can it crave. Were that sound sleep eternal, it were death; Yet the first atoms then, the seeds of breath, Are moving near to sense; we do but shake