But what is Death, we so unwisely fear?
An end of all our busy Tumults here:
The equal Lot of Poverty and State,
Which all partake of by a certain Fate.
Who e'er the Prospect of Mankind surveys,
At divers Ages, and by divers Ways,
Will find 'em from this noisy Scene retire,
Some the first Minute that they breath, expire.
Others perhaps survive to talk, and go,
But die, before they Good or Evil know.
Here one to Puberty arrives, and then
Returns lamented to the Dust again:
Another there, maintains a longer Strife
With all the pow'rful Enemies of Life;
Till with Vexation tir'd, and threescore Years,
He drops into the dark, and disappears.
I'm young indeed, and might expect to see
Times future long, and late Posterity.
'Tis what with Reason I should wish to do,
If to be old, were to be happy too.
But since substantial Grief so soon destroys
The Gust of all imaginary Joys,
Who would be too importunate to live,
Or more for Life, than it can merit, give.