Yet when thy Storms are hovering near,
FALSE FRIENDS to drop the mask presume,
As Blossoms fall, ne'er meant to bear,
Fair, but deceitful, steril Bloom.
But yet of Friends how few pass'd by,
Averting their stern, alter'd eye?
How many faithful, gathering round,
Pour'd Oil and Wine to cheer, and bound up ev'ry Wound?