As those we love decay, we die in part.
String after string is sever'd from the heart;
Till loosen'd life, at best but breathing clay,
Without one pang so soon doth fall away.

Unhappy he who latest feels the blow,
Whose eyes have wept o'er ev'ry friend laid low,
Dragg'd ling'ring on from partial death to death,
Till, dying, all he can resign is breath.

–Thomas Kinnersley
Sepulchral Curiosities