Yet true it is, survey we life around,
Whole hosts of ills on ev'ry side are found;
Who wound not here and there by chance a foe,
But at the species meditate the blow.
What millions perish by each others hands
In war's fierce rage? or by the dread commands
Of tyrants languish out their lives in chains,
Or lose them in variety of pains?
What numbers pinch'd by want and hunger die,
In spite of Nature's liberality?
(Those, still more numerous, I to name disdain,
By lewdness, and intemperance justly slain;)
What numbers, guiltless of their own disease,
Are snatch'd by sudden death, or waste by slow degrees?