A tardy vengeance shares the tyrant's guilt.
Ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.
To know the world, not love her, is thy point; She gives but little, nor that little, long.
Our birth is nothing but our death begun; As tapers waste, that instant they take fire.
Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.
Day buries day; month, month; and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.