Shou'd such a wretch to num'rous years arrive,
It can be little worth his while to live;
No honors, no regards his age attend,
Companions fly: he ne'er cou'd have a friend:
His flatterers leave him, and with wild affright
He looks within, and shudders at the sight:
When threatning Death uplifts his pointed dart,
With what impatience he applies to art,
Life to prolong amidst disease and pains!
Why this, if after it no sense remains?
Why shou'd he chuse these miseries to endure,
If Death cou'd grant an everlasting cure?
'Tis plain there's something whispers in his ear,
(Tho' fain he'd hide it) he has much to fear.