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Crookebackt hee was, toothshaken, and blere eyed,
Went on three feete, and somtyme, crept on fowre,
With olde lame boanes, that ratled by his syde,
His scalpe all pild, and hee with eld forlore:
His withred fist still knocking at Death's dore,
Fumbling, and driveling, as hee drawes his breath,
For briefe, the shape and messenger of Death.
--
Line 330, p. 322.

 

Thomas Sackville Dorset

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Someone's killed 100,000 people. We're almost going, "Well done! You killed 100,000 people? You must get up very early in the morning! I can't even get down the gym. Your diary must look odd: 'Get up in the morning, death, death, death, death, death, death, death – lunch – death, death, death – afternoon tea – death, death, death – quick shower …' "

 

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Mindless we lived and mindless we loved
And mindless at last we died;
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Till we caught our breath from the womb of death
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