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"O Charidas, what of the underworld?" "Great darkness." "And what of the resurrection?" "A lie." "And Pluto?" "A fable; we perish utterly."

How strange is the lot of us mortals! Each of us is here for a brief sojourn; for what purpose he knows not, though he senses it. But without deeper reflection one knows from daily life that one exists for other people.

To smell to a turf of fresh earth is wholesome for the body; no less are thoughts of mortality cordial to the soul.

That flesh is but the glasse, which holds the dust That measures all our time; which also shall Be crumbled into dust.

Consider The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:-- We are as they; Like them we fade away As doth a leaf.

This is the spot where I am mortal.

The immortal could we cease to contemplate, The mortal part suggests its every trait. God laid His fingers on the ivories Of her pure members as on smoothed keys, And there out-breathed her spirit's harmonies.

At thirty, man suspects himself a fool, Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; At fifty, chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve, In all the magnanimity of thought; Resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same. And why? because he thinks himself immortal, All men think all men mortal but themselves.