What two brave perils of the private sword
Could not effect, not all the furies do,
That self-divided Belgia did afford;
What not the envy of the seas reached to,
The cold of Moscow, and fat Irish air,
His often change of clime (though not of mind)
What could not work; at home in his repair
Was his blessed fate, but our hard lot to find.
Which shows, wherever death doth please t'appear,
Seas, serenes, swords, shot, sickness, all are there.