Our days begin with trouble here,
Our life is but a span,
And cruel death is always near,
So frail a thing is man.
500
_From the New England Primer._

Death rides on every passing breeze,
He lurks in every flower.
501
HEBER: _At a Funeral,_ No. i.

How wonderful is Death!
Death and his brother Sleep.
502
SHELLEY: _Queen Mab,_ St. i.

And Death is beautiful as feet of friend
Coming with welcome at our journey's end.
503
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL: _To George William Curtis._

Death in itself is nothing; but we fear
To be we know not what, we know not where.
504
DRYDEN: _Aurengzebe,_ Act iv., Sc. 1.


=Debt.=