Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat,

The mist in my face.

.   .   .   .   .   .   .

No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers,

The heroes of old;

Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears

Of pain, darkness, and cold.

Robert Browning (1812-1890): Prospice.

Some say no evil thing that walks by night,

In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen,

Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost

That breaks his magic chains at curfew time,

No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine,

Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity.

John Milton (1608-1674): Comus. Line 432.