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high in that temple of true glory, where the whispers of malevolence, and the clamours of faction, shall never be heard: where envy, the unfailing shadow of merit, shall never be permitted to enter; and where—when that melancholy hour is come, which no might nor greatness in mortality can delay—that hour in which you, my lord, shall be lost to your friends, to your country, to your king, your monument shall proclaim the glorious truth, that “ You were a

principal instrument in putting an end to a “ war, uncommonly wide and extensive; and “ of restoring peace to an exhausted and depopulated world.”

I am, my lord, with the most respectful acknowledgments for this indulgence,

your lordship’s
most obliged and devoted

humble servant,

WILLIAM DODD.

TVest Ham, Jan. 1, 1763.

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ADVERTISEMENT.

These Reflections were first written with a design to be published in a small volume proper to be given away by well-disposed persons at funerals, or on any other solemn occasion. But the editors of the CHRISTIAN'S MAGAZINE, supposing they might be of some service to that useful and well-esteemed work, requested the author first to print them there, and afterward to pursue his original design. Accordingly, they were printed in separate chapters, and he hath reason to be satisfied with the reception they met with. His best prayers accompany them in their present form, that they may be found useful

to mankind.

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REFLECTIONS ON DEATH.

CHAPTER I.

To die to sleep
No more: and by a sleep to say, we end
The heart-ach, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to :'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd-to-die to sleep
To sleep! perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of Death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life :
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’ unwary takes-
But that the dread of something after death
(That undiscovered country, from whose bourne
No traveller returns) puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear the ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.

SHAKSPEARE.

A few evenings ago I was called to perform the last sad office to the sacred remains of a departed friend and neighbour.

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