Shame on the body for breaking down while the spirit perseveres.
Death in itself is nothing; but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.
Like pilgrims to th' appointed place we tend; The World's an Inn, and Death the journey's end.
Dead men tell no tales.
Since every man who lives is born to die, And none can boast sincere felicity, With equal mind, what happens, let us bear, Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond our care. Like pilgrims to the' appointed place we tend; The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.
He was exhaled; his great Creator drew His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
All things are subject to decay and when fate summons, monarchs must obey.
Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.
Death only this mysterious truth unfolds, The mighty soul how small a body holds.
No king nor nation one moment can retard the appointed hour.
To die is landing on some distant shore.
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