From damned spirits, and the torturing cries

So in the bitterness of death he lies,

Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield

Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices,

Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven.

Such disproportiond fates. Compared with Him,

To Him of His won works the praise, His due.

From broken visions of perturbed rest

And waits in anguish for the mornings light.

Consumptive, tortur九_九_藏_书_网ing the wasted lungs.

With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars

Of men, his brethren, fashiond of the earth,

Of spirits angelical. Blessed be God,

Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise

For those thus sentenced--pity might disturb

Their heads encompassed with crowns, their heels

The delicate sense and most divine repose

Sight, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast,

He writhes, and turns him from t99lib.nethe accusing light,

Short years of folly on earth. Their groans unheard

Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry

I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again.

No such inordinate difference and vast

And finds no comfort in the sun, but says

And interrupted only by a cough

By mans erroneous standard. He discerns

The measure of His judgments is not fixd

Of revel reeling home from midnight cups.

Belike his kindred or九九藏书 companions once--

In chains and savage torments to repent

Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond;

How total a privation of all sounds,

Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom

Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope,

As he was nourishd with the self-same bread,

Where decent reverence will had kept her mute,

"When night comes I shall get a little rest."

And salutary fears. The man of parts,

Discredit on th九九藏书网e gospels serious truths

Of health, and active life--health not yet slain,

Beneath their feet, heavens pavement, far removed

Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch

Hath oer-stockd hell with devils, and brought down,

Through everlasting ages now divorced,

No man on earth is holy calld: they best

Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold

Stand in His sight approved, who at His feet

Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates九_九_藏_书_网

In heavn, the saint nor pity feels, nor care,

Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans.

What can that do for him, or what restore?

For sins black wages. On his tedious bed

A heave of gold, where he, and such as he,

And little images of pleasures past,

By her enormous fablings and mad lies,

Those are the moanings of the dying man,

And Fancy, most licentious on such themes

Some few groans, more, death comes, and there an end.