Death in itself is nothing; but we fear To be we know not what, we know not where.

More from Aureng-zebe

• A fiery soul, which, working out its way,
• A fiery soul, which, working out its way, Fretted the pygmy-body to decay, And o'er-inform'd the tenement of clay. A daring pilot in extremity; Pleas'd with the danger, when the waves went high He sought the storms.
• A man so various, that he seem'd to be
• A man so various, that he seem'd to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome; Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, Was everything by starts, and nothing long; But in the course of one revolving moon Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.
• And all to leave what with his toil he won
• And all to leave what with his toil he won To that unfeather'd two-legged thing, a son.