Nay, in death's hand, the grape-stone proves As strong as thunder is in Jove's.
Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.
A dead man is the worst enemy alive, I thought. You can't alter his power over you. You can't alter what you love or owe. And it's too late to ask him for his absolution. He has beaten you all ways.
If words had weight, a single sentence from Death would have anchored a ship.
How shall we praise the magnificence of the dead, The great man humbled, the haughty brought to dust?
But death's acquisitive instincts will win.
Death will never be pretty - its sights and smells too close and crude. And it will never come under our control: it gallops where we tiptoe, rips up our routines, burns our very breath with its heat and sting.
Who can take Death's portrait? The tyrant never sat.
Can storied urn, or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
Make songs for Death as you would sing to Love -But you will not assuage him. He aloneOf all the gods will take no gifts from men.
