La Vengeance, acte IV, se. iv

(( This vast and solid earth, that blazing sun, Those skies, through which it l'olls, must ail hâve end. What, then, is man? The smallest partof nothing. Day buries day; month, month; and year, the year : Our life is but a chain of many deaths. Can then Death's self be fear'd? Our life much rather : Life is the désert, life the solitude ; Death joins us to the great majbrity : 'Tis to be born to Platos and to Caesar; 'Tis to be great for ever.

'Tis pleasure, 'tis ambition, then, to die. »