But man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he s most assured, His glassy essence, like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven As make the angels weep.
The sense of death is most in apprehension; And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprisond in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendent world.