After Death nothing is, and nothing, death, <br />The utmost limit of a gasp of breath. <br />Let the ambitious zealot lay aside <br />His hopes of heaven, whose faith is but his pride; <br />Let slavish souls lay by their fear <br />Nor be concerned which way nor where <br />After this life they shall be hurled. <br />Dead, we become the lumber of the world, <br />And to that mass of matter shall be swept <br />Where things destroyed with things unborn are kept. <br />Devouring time swallows us whole. <br />Impartial death confounds body and soul. <br />For Hell and the foul fiend that rules <br />God's everlasting fiery jails <br />(Devised by rogues, dreaded by fools), <br />With his grim, grisly dog that keeps the door, <br />Are senseless stories, idle tales, <br />Dreams, whimsey's, and no more.<br /><br />John Wilmot<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-fragment-of-seneca-translated/
