Could we gain one glimpse of the great calendar of eternity, all our names would there be found, glued against their dates of death.

We die by land, and die by sea; we die by earthquakes, famines, plagues, and wars; by fevers, agues; woe, or mirth excessive.
This mortal air is one wide pestilence, that kills us all at last.
Whom the Death-cloud spares, sleeping, dies in silent watches of the night.

He whom the spears of many battles could not slay, dies of a grape-stone, beneath the vine-clad bower he built, to shade declining years.

We die, because we live.

But none the less does Babbalanja quake.