Like pilgrims to th' appointed place we tend; The World's an Inn, and Death the journey's end.

Since every man who lives is born to die, And none can boast sincere felicity, With equal mind, what happens, let us bear, Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond our care. Like pilgrims to the' appointed place we tend; The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.

I trade both with the living and the dead, for the enrichment of our native language.

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.

Love is a passion Which kindles honor into noble acts.

So softly death succeeded life in her, She did but dream of heaven, and she was there.

Pity melts the mind to love.