Like pilgrims to th' appointed place we tend; The World's an Inn, and Death the journey's end.
If you are for a merry jaunt, I will try, for once, who can foot it farthest.
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.
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