Page:Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922).djvu/203

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DEATH. DEATH

1

'Mid youth and song, feasting and carnival,
Through laughter, through the roses, as of old
Comes Death, on shadowy and relentless feet
Death, unappeasable by prayer or gold;
Death is the end, the end.
Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet
Death as a friend!

Rupert BrookeSecond Best.


Oh! death will find me, long before I tire
Of watching you; and swing me suddenly
Into the shade and loneliness and mire
Of the last land!
Rupert Brooke—Sonnet. (Collection 1908-1911)
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{{Hoyt quote
 | num =
 | text = <poem>Pliny hath an odd and remarkable Passage
concerning the Death of Men and Animals upon
the Recess or Ebb of the Sea.
Sir Thomas Browne—Letter to a Friend.
Sec. 7.
 | seealso = (See also Dickens)
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{{Hoyt quote
 | num =
 | text = <poem>A little before you made a leap in the dark.
Sir Thomas Browne—Works. II. 26. (Ed.
1708) Letters from the Dead. (1701) Works.
II. P. 502.
 | seealso = (See also {{sc|Rabelais) i
 
The thousand doors that lead to death.
Sir Thomas Browne—Bdigio Medici. Pt.I.
Sec. XLIV.


For I say, this is death and the sole death,
When a man's loss comes to him from his gain,
Darkness from light, from knowledge ignorance,
And lack of love from love made manifest.
Robert Browning—A Death in the Desert.


The grand perhaps.
RobertBrowntng—Bishop Blougram's Apology.
 | seealso = (See also Rabelais)
 


{{Hoyt quote
 | num = 5
 | text = Sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one that wraps the drapery of his couch
About hi m , and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Bryant—Thanatopsis.


All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.
Bryant—Thanatopsis.


So he passed over and all the trumpets sounded
For him on the other side.
Bunyan—Pilgrim's Progress. Death of Valiant for Truth. Close of Pt. II.


Die Todten reiten schnell.
The dead ride swiftly.
Burger—Leonore.


But, oh! fell Death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early.
Burns—Highland Mary.


There is only rest and peace
In the city of Surcease
From the failings and the wailings 'neath the sun,
And the wings of the swift years
Beat but gently o'er the biers
Making music to the sleepers every one.
Richard Burton—City of the Dead.


They do neither plight nor wed
In the city of the dead,
In the city where they sleep away the hours.
Richard Burton—City of the Dead.
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{{Hoyt quote
 | num = 15
 | text = We wonder if this can be really the close,
Life's fever cooled by death's trance;
And we cry, though it seems to our dearest of
foes,
"God give us another chance."
Richard Burton—Song of the Unsuccessful.


Timor mortis morte pejor.
The fear of death is worse than death.
 | author = Burton
 | work = Anatomy of Melancholy.
 | place = (Quoted.)
 | seealso = (See also Bacon)
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{{Hoyt quote
 | num =
 | text = <poem>Friend Ralph! thou hast
Outrun the constable at last!
Butler—Hudibras. Pt. I. Canto III. L.
1,367.


Heaven gives its favourites—early death.
Byron—ChOde Harold. Canto IV. St. 102.
Also Don Juan. Canto IV. St. 12.
 | seealso = (See also Herbert, Menander, Plautus)
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{{Hoyt quote
 | num =
 | text = <poem>Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.
Byron—Childe Harold. Canto IV. St. 179.


Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns!
 | author = Byron
 | work = Don Juan. Canto III. St. 108.


"Whom the gods love die young," was said of
yore.
 | author = Byron
 | work = Don Juan. Canto IV. St. 12.
 | seealso = (See also Herbert, Menander, Plautus)
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{{Hoyt quote
 | num =
 | text = <poem>Death, so called, is a thing which makes men
weep,
And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep.
 | author = Byron
 | work = Don Juan. Canto XIV. St. 3.


Oh, God! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing
In any shape, in any mood!
 | author = Byron
 | work = Prisoner of Chillon. St. 8.


Down to the dust!—and, as thou rott'st away,
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.
 | author = Byron
 | work = A Sketch.


Brougham delivered a very warm panegyric
upon the ex-Chancellor, and expressed a hope
that he would make a good end, although to an
expiring Chancellor death was now armed with a
new terror.
Campbell—Lives of the Chancellors. Vol. VII.
P. 163.


And I still onward haste to my last night;
Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly;
So every day we live, a day we die.
Thomas Campion—Divine and Moral Songs.