Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come, when it will come.
SHAKS.: _Jul. Caesar,_ Act ii., Sc. 2.
Kings and mightiest potentates must die,
For that's the end of human misery.
SHAKS.: _1 Henry VI.,_ Act iii., Sc. 2.
Death lies on her, like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
SHAKS.: _Rom. and Jul.,_ Act iv., Sc. 5.
Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.
SHAKS.: _Richard II.,_ Act ii., Sc. 1.
Behind her death,
Close following pace for pace, not mounted yet
On his pale horse.
MILTON: _Par. Lost,_ Bk. x., Line 588.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm,
With banquet song, and dance, and wine;
And thou art terrible,--the tear,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony are thine.
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK: _Marco Bozzaris._
Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.
YOUNG: _Night Thoughts,_ Night v., Line 1011.
To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late.
MACAULAY: _Lays Anc. Rome, Horatius,_ xxvii.
Leaves have their times to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set--but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death.
MRS. HEMANS: _Hour of Death._
Death is only kind to mortals.
SCHILLER: _Complaint of Ceres,_ St. 4.
What a strange, delicious amazement is Death,
To be without body and breathe without breath.
EDWIN ARNOLD: _She and He._
There is no Death! What seems so is transition;
This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call death.
LONGFELLOW: _Resignation,_ St. 5.
Our days begin with trouble here,
Our life is but a span,
And cruel death is always near,
So frail a thing is man.
_From the New England Primer._
Death rides on every passing breeze,
He lurks in every flower.
HEBER: _At a Funeral,_ No. i.
How wonderful is Death!
Death and his brother Sleep.
SHELLEY: _Queen Mab,_ St. i.
And Death is beautiful as feet of friend
Coming with welcome at our journey's end.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL: _To George William Curtis._
Death in itself is nothing; but we fear
To be we know not what, we know not where.
DRYDEN: _Aurengzebe,_ Act iv., Sc. 1.