On Death

Tell me thou safest End of all our Woe,
Why wretched Mortals do avoid thee so:

Thou gentle drier o' th' afflicted Tears,
Thou noble ender of the Cowards Fears;

Thou sweet Repose to Lovers sad dispaire,
Thou Calm t' Ambitions rough Tempestuous Care.

If in regard of Bliss thou wert a Curse,
And then the Joys of Paradise art worse;

Yet after Man from his first Station fell,
And God from Eden Adam did expel,

Thou wert no more an Evil, but Relief;
The Balm and Cure to ev'ry Humane Grief:

Through thee (what Man had forfeited before)
He now enjoys, and ne'r can loose it more.

No subtile Serpents in the Grave betray,
Worms on the Body there, not Soul do prey;

No Vice there Tempts, no Terrors there afright,
No Coz'ning Sin affords a false delight:

No vain Contentions do that Peace annoy,
No feirce Alarms break the lasting Joy.

Such real Good as Life can never know;