The Sense Of Death Is

And Nothing Can We Call Our Own But Death And That Small Model Of The Barren Earth Which Serves As Paste And Cover To Our Bones. For God's Sake, Let Us Sit Upon The Ground And Tell Sad Stories Of The Death Of Kings.

Wisely, I Say, I Am A Bachelor.

The Sense Of Death Is Most In Apprehension, And The Poor Beetle, That We Tread Upon, In Corporal Sufferance Finds A Pang As Great As When A Giant Dies.

But Now I Am Cabined, Cribbed, Confined, Bound In To Saucy Doubts And Fears.

To Climb Steep Hills Requires A Slow Pace At First.