The Porch

To live's a Gift, to dye's a Debt that we Each of us owe unto Mortality. What though the dead do ghastly look, and we Like Children frighted are even but to be Spectators of a dying man or woman? Yet nothing's to be fear'd that is so common. It is not Death that we in them do see; It's but the Mask wherewith 'twill vailed be. Yet where's the man or woman that can look Death in the face, as in some pleasing book? Can we contented be to view our face In such a dreadful, doleful Looking-glass? O where's the man or woman that can cry, Behold I come, Death I desire to dye? O where's the man or woman that can say, Lord, I desire my dissolution day? And what's the reason 'tis so hard to dye, To leave this World so full of vanity? What makes it terrible? nought but the sense Of guilt & sin: Break down this potent fence, And then be sure for aye you shall enjoy Joyes everlasting, Everlasting joy.