Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.
We push time from us, and we wish him back; * * * * * * Life we think long and short; death seek and shun.
Too low they build who build below the skies.
Ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.
Who can take Death's portrait? The tyrant never sat.
Nothing but what astonishes is true.