That I must die, it is my only comfort;
Death is the privilege of human nature,
And life without it were not worth our taking;
Thither the poor, the prisoner, and the mourner,
Fly for relief, and lay their burdens down.
Come then, and take me into thy cold arms,
Thou meagre shade; here let me breathe my last.
Charmed with my Father’s pity and forgiveness,
More than if angels tuned their golden viols,
And sung a requiem to my parting soul.