An horrible stillness first invades our ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.
But dying is a pleasure / When living is a pain.
You see through love, and that deludes your sight, As what is straight seems crooked through the water.
It's a hard world, neighbors, if a man's oath must be his master.
Fattened in vice, so callous and so gross, he sins and sees not, senseless of his loss.
If you have lived, take thankfully the past. Make, as you can, the sweet remembrance last.