Days. Of all the days that's in the week
I dearly love but one day

And that's the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday;

For then I'm dressed all in my best
To walk abroad with Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

HENRY CAREY, Sally in Our Alley, st. 4

The best of all ways

To lengthen our days,

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

T. MOORE, The Young May Moon, st. 1
Come hither lads and hearken, for a tale there is to tell,
Of the wonderful days a-coming, when all shall be better
than well. W. MORRIS, The Day Is Coming, st. 1
ISHAKESPEARE,
As You Like It, ii, 7; Timon of Athens, iv, 2

We have seen better days.

Jesus, [Oh,] the days that we have seen!1

SHAKESPEARE, King Henry IV, Part II, iii, 2

Deacon. The Deacon swore, as deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou."

HOLMES, The Deacon's Masterpiece, st. 4

Dead. Faithful friends! It lies, I know,
Pale and white and cold as snow;
And ye say, "Abdallah's dead!"
Weeping at the feet and head,
I can see your falling tears,

I can hear your sighs and prayers;
Yet I smile and whisper this,-
"I am not the thing you kiss;
Cease your tears, and let it lie;

It was mine, it is not I."

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD, After Death in Arabia, st. 2
All that tread

The globe are but a handful to the tribes

That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound

Eyah! those days, those days!-KIPLING, The Courting of Dinah Shadd That time,- O times!

SHAKESPEARE, Antony and Cleopatra, ii, 5

We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young,
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.

WORDSWORTH, To a Butterfly, st. 2

Save his own dashings, yet the dead are there!
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep,- the dead reign there alone!

BRYANT, Thanatopsis, lines 48-57

The light has come upon the dark benighted way. Dead, your Majesty! Dead, my Lords and gentlemen! Dead, Right Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order! Dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts! And dying thus around us every day! DICKENS, Bleak House, xlvii

When once the Fates have cut the mortal thread,
The man as much to all intents is dead,
Who dies to-day, and will as long be so,
As he who died a thousand years ago.

DRYDEN,

Translation of Lucretius, III, lines 318-321

Twelve hundred million men are spread
About this earth, and I and You
Wonder, when You and I are dead,
What will those luckless millions do?

Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated

That a great man was dead.

LONGFELLOW, Warden of the Cinque Ports, st. 12

“Odious! in woollen! 't would a saint provoke!”
(Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke),
"No, let a charming chintz, and Brussels lace
Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face:
One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead -
And Betty give this cheek a little red."

POPE, Moral Essays, Epistle i, lines 246-251

Dead, for a ducat, dead!

He is dead and gone, lady,

SHAKESPEARE, Hamlet, iii, 4

He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.

Ibid., iv, 5

Come not, when I am dead,

To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,

To trample round my fallen head,

And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.
TENNYSON, Fragment, st. 1

Home they brought her warrior dead;
She nor swooned nor uttered cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
"She must weep or she will die.”

TENNYSON, The Princess, v

Nothing is dead, but that which wished to die;
Nothing is dead, but wretchedness and pain;
Nothing is dead, but what encumbered, galled,
Blocked up the pass, and barred from real life.

Dead Sea.

YOUNG, Night Thoughts, VI, lines 41-44

The apples on the Dead Sea's shore,
All ashes to the taste.
BYRON, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iii, 34

Death.- Weep awhile, if ye are fain,

Sunshine still must follow rain;
Only not at death,- for death,
Now I know, is that first breath
Which our souls draw when we enter

Life, which is of all life centre.1

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD, After Death in Arabia, st. 6

I would tell you, darling, if I were dead,
And 't were your hot tears upon my brow shed.

You should not ask, vainly, with streaming eyes,
Which in Death's touch was the chiefest surprise.

What a strange delicious amazement is Death,
To be without body and breathe without breath.
SIR EDWIN ARNOLD, She and He, st. 27, 29, 35

There was another heavy sound,

A hush and then a groan;

And darkness swept across the sky

The work of death was done!

W. E. AYTOUN, The Execution of Montrose, st. 18

1There is no death! What seems so is transition;

This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call death.

LONGFELLOW, Resignation, st. 5

Revenge triumphs over death; love slights it; honour aspireth to it; grief flieth to it; fear preoccupateth it. BACON, Essay II: On Death

Men fear death as children fear to go into the dark.

Like the hand which ends a dream,

Death, with the might of his sunbeam,
Touches the flesh, and the soul awakes.

Ibid.

R. BROWNING, The Flight of the Duchess, xv

What is death but parting breath?

BURNS, Macpherson's Farewell, st. 2

For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still.
BYRON, Destruction of Sennacherib, st. 3

Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade,

Death came with friendly care;

The opening bud to Heaven conveyed,
And bade it blossom there.

S. T. ColeridGE, Epitaph on an Infant

The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent,

So those who enter death must go as little children sent. Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead; And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead.

MARY MAPES DODGE, The Two Mysteries, st. 5 The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.1 DRYDEN, Palamon and Arcite, line 2164

He trumped Death's ace for me that day,
And I'm not goin' back on him!

JOHN HAY, Banty Tim, st. 7

Death rides on every passing breeze,

He lurks in every flower.-R. HEBER, At a Funeral, st. 3

Death saw two players playing at cards,
But the game wasn't worth a dump,
For he quickly laid them flat with a spade,
To wait for the final trump!'

HOOD, Death's Ramble

1 And, as the cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted "Open then the door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."

OMAR KHAYYÁM, Rubáiyát (trans. Fitzgerald), st. 3 "There card-players wait till the last trump be played. LOWELL, Fable for Critics, line 1659

Death-Continued

But why do I talk of death?
That phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;

O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

HOOD, The Song of the Shirt, st. 5

Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art:
I shall be free when thou art through.

Take all there is take hand and heart:
There must be somewhere work to do.

HELEN FISKE JACKSON, Habeas Corpus, ad finem

Death stands above me, whispering low

I know not what into my ear:

Of his strange language all I know

Is, there is not a word of fear.1

W. S. LANDOR, Last Fruit off an Old Tree, xcv

Death, thou 'rt a cordial old and rare:

Look how compounded, with what care!

Time got his wrinkles reaping thee

Sweet herbs from all antiquity.

Then, Time, let not a drop be spilt:
Hand me the cup whene'er thou wilt;
'Tis thy rich stirrup-cup to me;
I'll drink it down right smilingly.

LANIER, The Stirrup-Cup, st. 1-3

1 Fear death?- to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,

When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place

Where he stands, the Arch Fear, in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go

For the journey is done and the summit attained,

And the barriers fall,

Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,

The reward of it all.

I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,

And bade me creep past.

No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers

The heroes of old,

Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears

Of pain, darkness, and cold.

For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,

The black minute's at end,

And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,

Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light.

R. BROWNING, Prospice, lines 1-26