Body and soul, like peevish man and wife, United jar, and yet are loth to part.
We see time's furrows on another's brow, And death intrench'd, preparing his assault; How few themselves in that just mirror see!
Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.
The man that blushes is not quite a brute.
Ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.
Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.