Tyrannick Death, whom trembling Mortals flee,
The Prince of Ills to ev'ry Wretch but me,
Plays with the Torments of my struggling Heart,
And o'er my Bosom shakes his ling'ring Dart.
O! sacred Judge, when will thy Wrath be done?
Why do I live to scare the wond'ring Sun?
Let not thy Mercy spare my wounded Clay,
But strike and sweep me from offensive Day.
My Heart is vexed with consuming Fears,
And nourish'd only with continual Tears;
Close at my Heels pursue a meagre Train
Of pining Sickness and distorting Pain,
Pale-ey'd Confusion with dishivel'd Hair,
And wild Impatience leading on Despair.