But Joys like those that Lovers Souls enjoy,
which here on Earth there's nothing can destroy;
Ay, ay, 'tis Love only can be
The Happy Souls endless felicity._

_Ger._ What a dull, heavy load hangs on my soul!
Weighing me down to Earth, as if 'twould say
'Twas weary of its Burthen, and resolv'd
To shake it off, and mix with its first matter;
What is the thing, call'd Death, we mortals shun?
Is't some real, or is't a fancy only?
Like that imaginary point in Mathematicks;
Not to be found only in definition:
It is no more: Death, like your Childrens Bug-bears,
Is fear'd by all, yet has no other Being
Then what weak fancy gives it; 'tis a Line,
But yet imaginary, drawn betwixt
Time and that dreadful thing Eternity;
I, that's the thing, 'tis fear'd; for now I find it:
Eternity which puzzles all the World,
To name the inhabitants that People it:
Eternity, whose undiscover'd Countrey
We Fools divide, before we come to see it;
Making one part contain all happiness,
The other misery, then unseen fight for't.
Losing our certains for uncertainties;
All Sects pretending to a Right of choyce;
Yet none go willingly to take their part,
For they all doubt what they pretend to know,
And fear to mount, lest they should fall below: