we can die but once, and after Death
Our State no alteration knows;
But, when we have resign'd our Breath,
Th' immortal Spirit goes
To endless Joys, or everlasting Woes.
Wise is the Man who labours to secure
That mighty and important Stake;
And, by all methods, strives to make
His passage safe, and his reception sure.
Merely to die no Man of Reason fears,
For certainly we must,
As we are born, return to Dust:
'Tis the last Point of many lingering Years.
But whither then we go,
Whither, we fain would know;
But human Understanding cannot show,
This makes us tremble, and creates
Strange apprehensions in the Mind;
Fills it with restless Doubts, and wild Debates
Concerning what, we living, cannot find.
None know what Death is, but the Dead,
Therefore we all by Nature, Dying dread,
As a strange, doubtful way, we know not how to tread.