All men think that all men are mortal but themselves.
We cry for mercy to the next amusement, The next amusement mortgages our fields
We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we smile - The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry
Virtue alone has majesty in death.
Leisure is pain; take off our chariot wheels; how heavily we drag the load of life!
We see time's furrows on another's brow, And death intrench'd, preparing his assault; How few themselves in that just mirror see!