The thoughtless man may laugh to-day,
To-morrow may be dying!
Bishop Horne.
Death distant!—no alas! he’s ever with us,
And shakes the dart at us in all our actings;
He lurks within our cup, while we’re in health;
Sits by our sick-bed, mocks our medicines;
We cannot walk, or sit, or ride, or travel,
But death is by to seize us when he lists.