death

Here am I, dying of a hundred good symptoms.

Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die.

Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead; For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

What's fame? a fancy'd life in other's breath. A thing beyond us, even before our death.

Is it, in Heav'n, a crime to love too well? To bear too tender, or too firm a heart To act a lover's or a Roman's part? Is there no bright reversion in the sky, For those who greatly think, or bravely die?

Good God! how often are we to die before we go quite off this stage? In every friend we lose a part of ourselves, and the best part.

By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed, By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned, By strangers honored, and by strangers mourned!

Vital spark of heav'nly flame! Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!

Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things To low ambition and the pride of kings. Let us (since life can little more supply Than just to look about us, and to die) Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man; A mighty maze! but not without a plan.

Die of a rose in aromatic pain.