When, leaving us a perfect sense and mind,
She (like a workman in his science skill’d)
Pulls down with ease what her own hand did build. 
That art which knew to join all parts in one,
Makes the least vi’lent separation. 770
Yet though our ligaments betimes grow weak,
We must not force them till themselves they break. 
Pythagoras bids us in our station stand,
Till God, our general, shall us disband. 
Wise Solon dying, wish’d his friends might grieve,
That in their memories he still might live. 
Yet wiser Ennius gave command to all 777
His friends not to bewail his funeral;
Your tears for such a death in vain you spend,
Which straight in immortality shall end. 
In death, if there be any sense of pain,
But a short space to age it will remain;
On which, without my fears, my wishes wait,
But tim’rous youth on this should meditate: 
Who for light pleasure this advice rejects,
Finds little, when his thoughts he recollects. 
Our death (though not its certain date) we know;
Nor whether it may be this night, or no: 
How then can they contented live, who fear
A danger certain, and none knows how near? 790
They err, who for the fear of death dispute,
Our gallant actions this mistake confute. 
Thee, Brutus!  Rome’s first martyr I must name;
The Curtii bravely dived the gulf of flame: 
Attilius sacrificed himself, to save
That faith, which to his barb’rous foes he gave;
With the two Scipios did thy uncle fall,
Rather than fly from conqu’ring Hannibal. 
The great Marcellus (who restored Rome)
His greatest foes with honour did entomb. 800
Their lives how many of our legions threw
Into the breach, whence no return they knew? 
Must then the wise, the old, the learned fear,
What not the rude, the young, th’unlearn’d forbear? 
Satiety from all things else doth come,
Then life must to itself grow wearisome. 
Those trifles wherein children take delight,
Grow nauseous to the young man’s appetite;
And from those gaieties our youth requires
To exercise their minds, our age retires. 810
And when the last delights of age shall die,
Life in itself will find satiety. 
Now you (my friends) my sense of death shall hear,
Which I can well describe, for he stands near. 
Your father, Laelius, and your’s, Scipio,
My friends, and men of honour, I did know;
As certainly as we must die, they live
That life which justly may that name receive: 
Till from these prisons of our flesh released,
Our souls with heavy burdens lie oppress’d; 820
Which part of man from heaven falling down,
Earth, in her low abyss, doth hide and drown,
A place so dark to the celestial light,
And pure, eternal fire’s quite opposite,