Death Ends Our Woes, And The Kind

Either Be Wholly Slaves Or Wholly Free.

A Satirical Poet Is The Check Of The Laymen On Bad Priests.

But 'tis The Talent Of Our English Nation, Still To Be Plotting Some New Reformation.

Of No Distemper, Of No Blast He Died, But Fell Like Autumn Fruit That Mellow'd Long: Even Wonder'd At, Because He Dropp'd No Sooner. Fate Seem'd To Wind Him Up For Fourscore Years; Yet Freshly Ran He On Ten Winters More; Till Like A Clock Worn Out With Eating Time, The Wheels Of Weary Life At Last Stood Still.

As One That Neither Seeks, Nor Shuns His Foe.