But dying is a pleasure / When living is a pain.
The good we have enjoyed from Heaven's free will, and shall we murmur to endure the ill?
No king nor nation one moment can retard the appointed hour.
Pity melts the mind to love.
Heaven be thanked, we live in such an age, When no man dies for love, but on the stage.
I maintain, against the enemies of the stage, that patterns of piety, decently represented, may second the precepts.