Our birth is nothing but our death begun;
As tapers waste, that instant they take fire. 720
Shall we then fear, lest that should come to pass,
Which comes to pass each moment of our lives?
If fear we must, let that Death turn us pale,
Which murders strength and ardour; what remains
Should rather call on Death, than dread his call.
Ye partners of my fault, and my decline!
Thoughtless of death, but when your neighbour’s knell
(Rude visitant!) knocks hard at your dull sense,