How Blunt Are All The Arrows Of

The Best-concerted Schemes Men Lay For Fame, Die Fast Away: Only Themselves Die Faster. The Far-fam'd Sculptor, And The Laurell'd Bard, Those Bold Insurancers Of Deathless Fame, Supply Their Little Feeble Aids In Vain.

But If There Be An Hereafter,and That There Is, Conscience, Uninfluenc'dand Suffer'd To Speak Out, Tells Every Man,then Must It Be An Awful Thing To Die;more Horrid Yet To Die By One's Own Hand.

How Shocking Must Thy Summons Be, O Death, To Him That Is At Ease In His Possessions! Who, Counting On Long Years Of Pleasure Here, Is Quite Unfurnished For The World To Come.

The Common Damn'd Shun Their Society.

Of Joys Departed, Not To Return, How Painful The Remembrance