of life. Discourse of reason doth not only call and
summon us unto it. For why should we fear to lose a thing,
which being lost, cannot be moaned? But also, since we are
threatened by so many kinds of death, there is no more
inconvenience to fear them all than to endure one: what
matter it when it cometh, since it is unavoidable?... Death
is a part of yourselves; you fly from yourselves. The being
you enjoy is equally shared between life and death ... The
continual work of your life is to contrive death; you are in
death during the time you continue in life ... during life
you are still dying."

The same line of expostulation occurs in other essays. In the Fortieth
we have:

"Now death, which some of all horrible things call the most
horrible, who knows not how others call it the only haven of
this life's torments? the sovereign good of nature? the only
stay of our liberty? and the ready and common receipt of our
evils?...

" ... Death is but felt by discourse, because it is the
emotion of an instant. A thousand beasts, a thousand men,
are sooner dead than threatened."

Then take a passage occurring near the end of the APOLOGY OF RAYMOND
SEBONDE:

"We do foolishly fear a kind of death, whereas we have
already passed and daily pass so many others.... The flower
of age dieth, fadeth, and fleeteth, when age comes upon us,
and youth endeth in the flower of a full-grown man's age,
childhood in youth, and the first age dieth in infancy; and
yesterday endeth in this day, and to-day shall die in
to-morrow."

Now compare textually the Duke's speech:

"Be absolute for death: either death or life
Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life:--
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
That none but fools would keep: a breath thou art,
(Servile to all the skiey influences)
That dost this habitation, where thou keep'st,
Hourly afflict: merely, thou are death's fool;
For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun,
And yet run'st towards him still: Thou art not noble;
For all the accommodations that thou bear'st
Are nursed by baseness: Thou art by no means valiant,
For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork
Of a poor worm: Thy best of rest is sleep,
And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;
For thou exist'st on many thousand grains
Which issue out of dust: Happy thou art not;