"‘Right as ther deyed never man,’ quod he, ‘That he ne livede in erthe in som degree, Right so ther livede never man,’ he seyde, ‘In al this world, that som tyme he ne deyde. This world nis but a thurghfare ful of wo, And we ben pilgrimes, passinge to and fro; Deeth is an ende of every worldly sore.’"
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:Since every man, who lives, is born to die, And none can boast sincere felicity, With equal mind, what happens, let us bear, Nor joy, nor grieve too much, for things beyond our care. Like pilgrims, to the appointed place we tend; The world's an inn, and death the journey's end. (trans. Dryden)
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The Canterbury Tales
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