William Walsh (1663–1708)

WHAT has this bugbear Death that’s worth our care?

After a life in pain and sorrow past,

After deluding hope and dire despair,

Death only gives us quiet at the last.

How strangely are our love and hate misplaced!

Freedom we seek, and yet from freedom flee;

Courting those tyrant-sins that chain us fast,

And shunning Death, that only sets us free.

’Tis not a foolish fear of future pains,

(Why should they fear who keep their souls from stains?)

That makes me dread thy terrors, Death, to see:

’Tis not the loss of riches, or of fame,

Or the vain toys the vulgar pleasures name;

’Tis nothing, Caelia, but losing thee.