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 osition—that the world should not care for him. He will not endure its censure; he will not endure its contempt; he is formed to feel any slur that is cut upon him, not like a wound, but like fifty mortal swords each of them striking at something infinitely beyond hit life.

Tush, Death, why should'st thou dreaded be And shunn'd as some great misery ?

That cur'st our woes and strife; Only because we're ill resolv'd, And in dark error's clouds involr'd, Think Death the end of Lafe; Which most untrue, Each place we view, Gives testimonies rife.

The flowers that we behold each year. In chequer'd meads their heads to rear,

New rising from their tomb; The eglantines and honey-daisies, And all those pretty smiling faces, That still in age grow young; Even these do cry, That though men die, Yet life from death may come.