EV'N while they liv'd, their Martial Hate
But firmer fix'd thy Throne;
Nor, tho' it hasten'd others Fate,
Could it delay their own.
Nor didst thou want  to kill;
can execute thy Will:
Whene'er thou dost exert thy Pow'r,
A thousand morbid Troops thy Call obey;
Sometimes thy wasting Plagues devour,
And sweep whole Realms away.
Now with contagious Biles the City mourns,
And now thy scorching Fever burns,
Or trembling Quartan chills;
Of Heat and Cold the dire Extremes
Now freeze, now fire the Blood with Flames,
Till various Torment kills.