Death eats up all things, both the young lamb and old sheep; and I have heard our parson say, death values a prince no more than a clown; all’s fish that comes to his net; he throws at all, and sweeps stakes; he’s no mower that takes a nap at noon-day, but drives on, fair weather or foul, and cuts down the green grass as well as the ripe corn: he’s neither squeamish nor queesy-stomach’d, for he swallows without chewing, and crams down all things into his ungracious maw; and tho’ you can see no belly he has, he has a confounded dropsy, and thirsts after men’s lives, which he guggles down like mother’s milk. Cervantes Saavedra