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C.N. Douglas, comp.  Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical.  1917.
 
Funeral
 
  It is but waste to bury them preciously.
Chaucer.    
  1
                  The nodding plums,
Which makes poor man’s humiliation proud;
Boast of our ruin! triumph of our dust!
Dr. Young.    
  2
        Groans and convulsions, and discolour’d faces,
Friends weeping round us, blacks, and obsequies,
Make death a dreadful thing; the pomp of death
Is far more terrible than death itself.
Nat. Lee.    
  3
  The only kind office performed for us by our friends of which we never complain is our funeral; and the only thing which we most want, happens to be the only thing we never purchase—our coffin.
Colton.    
  4
                      Of all
The fools who flock’d to swell or see the show,
Who car’d about the corpse? The funeral
Made the attraction, and the black the woe;
There throbb’d not there a thought which pierc’d the pall.
Byron.    
  5
        Why is the hearse with scutcheons blazon’d round,
And with the nodding plume of ostrich crown’d?
The dead know it not, nor profit gain;
It only serves to prove the living vain,
How short is life; how frail is human trust!
Is all this pomp for laying dust to dust?
Gay.    
  6
        But see! the well-plumed hearse comes nodding on, stately and slow;
      But tell us, why this waste?
Why this ado in earthing up a carcass
That’s fallen into disgrace, and in the nostrils smells horrible?
Blair.    
  7
        What though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year?
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show!
Pope.    
  8
        Thus, day by day, and month by month, we pass’d;
It pleas’d the Lord to take my spouse at last.
I tore my gown, I soil’d my locks with dust,
And beat my breasts—as wretched widows must.
Before my face my handkerchief I spread,
To hide the flood of tears I did—not shed.
Pope.    
  9
 
 
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