And fear not them that can kill the body, but are not
able to kill the Soul; But rather fear Him, which is
able to destroy both Soul and Body in Hell
And is our Life, a life wherein we borrow
No not the smallest respite from our Sorrow?
Our Profits are they but some Yellow Dust;
Subject to Loss, to Canker-eat and Rust:
Whose very Image breedeth ceaseless Cares
In every Mind where it Dominion bears.
And are our Pleasures mainly in Excess?
Which genders Guilt, and ends in Bitterness.
Are Honours fickle and dependent Stuff?
Oft-times blown furthest from us by a Puff.
Doth pale-fac'd Envy wait at every Stage,
To bite and wound us in our Pilgrimage?
Is all we have, or hope for, but Adventure?
Then here's nought worth our stay, let us encounter
The King of Terrors bravely, un-dismay'd,
As gallant Aria to her Paetus said.

 And so might be my Choice, but that I see
Hells flashes folding through Eternitie;
And hear damn'd Company, that there remain
For very Anguish gnaw their Tongues in twain.

 Then him for Happy I will never Praise,
That's fill'd with Honour, Wealth, or length of Days:
But Happy be, though in a Dying Hour,
O're whom the Second Death obtains no power.