As others have, alas! why could not I
Yield my short Being, and an Infant die?
Why was a Mother's Care indulg'd to me?
And why supported on her friendly Knee?
Why did I in her tender Bosom grow,
A foster'd Subject of impending Woe?
Did friendly Death my marble Limbs enchain,
This bleeding Heart would know no smarting Pain;
Then lasting Sleep would seal my shaded Eyes,
Where frozen Pride and conquer'd Vengeance lies;
There weary Slaves forgotten Rest may find,
And injur'd Orphans leave their Tears behind;
Tyrannick Rage must in the Grave subside,
Where starving Wretches find their Wants supplyd,
Thrice happy Rest, O why to me deny'd!
Life still will hover round despairing Slaves,
Who slight her Favours, and would court their Graves;
Death gliding by us, shews his grizly Charms;
But the coy Phantom mocks our reaching Arms:
He flies the Dungeons of intreating Woe,
And strikes the Prosp'rous with unwelcome Blow:
To blooming Youth his partial Arrows fly,
O'er wither'd Mendicants, that vainly try
To meet the fatal Shaft, and only wish to die.