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Just racking from self-slaughter, in a rage
To rush into the presence of our Judge;
As if we challeng'd him to do his worst,
And matter'd not his wrath.—Unheard of tortures
Must be reserz'd for such: these herd together;
The common Damn'd shun their society,
And look upon themselves as finds less foul.
Our time is fix'd, and all our days are number'd;
How long, how short, we know not:—this we know
Duty requires we calmly wait the summons
Nor dare to stir till Heav'n shall give permission:
Like Centries that must keep their destin'd stand,
And wait th' ppointed hour, till they're reliv'd.
Those only are the brave, that keep their ground,
And keep it to the last. To run away,
Is but a cowards trick: To run away,
From this world's ills, that at the very worst
Will soon blow o'er, thinking to ⟨mend⟩ ourselves
By boldly vent'ring on a world unknown,
And plunging headlong in the dark;—'tis mad;
No frenzy half so desperate as this.

Tell us, ye Dead; will none of you, in pity
To those you left behind, disclose the secret?
Oh that some courteous ghost would blab it out:
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be.
I've heard, that souls departed, have sometimes
Forewarn'd men of their death:—'Tis kindly done
To knock, and give the alarm—But what means
This stinted charity?—'Tis but lame kindness
That does its work by halves.—Why night you not
Tell us what 'tis to die?— Do the strict laws
Of your society forbid your speaking
Upon a point so nice?—I'll ask no more:
Sullen, like lamps in sepulchres, your shine
Enlightens but yourselves. Well,—'tis no matter;
A very little time will clear up all,
And make us learn'd as you are, and as close,