Shou'd some MACHAON, whose sagacious soul
Trac'd blushing nature to her inmost goal,
Skill'd in each drug the varying world provides,
All earth embosoms, and all ocean hides,
Nor cooling herb, nor healing balm supply,
Ease the swoln breast, or close the languid eye;
But, exquisitely ill, awake disease,
And arm with poisons ev'ry baleful breeze:
What racks, what tortures must his crimes demand,
The more than BORGIA of a bleeding land!
And is less guilty he, whose shameless page
Not to the present bounds its subtil rage,
But spreads contagion wide, and stains a future age?