Then death, so called, is but old matter dressed

In some new figure, and varied vest;

Thus all things are but altered, nothing dies;

And here and there the unbodied spirit flies,

By time, or force, or sickness dispossessed,

And lodges, where it lights, in man or beast;

Or hunts without, till ready limbs it finds,

And actuates those according to their kind;

From tenement to tenement is tossed,

The soul is still the same, the figure only lost;

And, as the softened wax seals receives,

The face assumes, and that impression leaves;

Now called by one, now by another name;

The form is only changed, the wax is still the same:

So death so called, can but the form deface . . .