Alas, poor country,

Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot

Be call’d our mother, but our grave, where nothing,

But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;

Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks, that rent the air,

Are made, not mark’d; where violent sorrow seems

A modern ecstasy. The dead man’s knell

Is there scarce ask’d for who; and good men’s lives

Expire before the flowers in their caps,

Dying or ere they sicken.