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many a fiend did haunt this house of rest, And made of passive wights an easy prey. Here lethargy with deadly sleep opprest, Stretch'd on his back, a mighty lubbard lay, Heaving his sides, and snored night and day: To stir him from his traunce it was not eath, And his half-opened eye he shut straightway: He led I ween the softest way to death, And taught withouten pain or strife to yield the breath. Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound, Soft, swoll'n, and pale, here lay the Hydropsie; Unwieldy man, with belly monstrous round For ever fed with watery supply; For still he drank, and yet he still was dry, And here a moping mystery did sit, . Mother of Spleen, in robes of various dye: She call'd herself the Hypochondriac Fit, And frantic seem'd to some, to others seem'd a wit. A lady was she whimsical and proud, Yet oft thro' fear her pride would crouchen low, She felt or fancied in her fluttering mood All the diseases that the vitals know, And sought all physic that the shops bestow; And still new leeches and new drugs would try. 'Twas hard to hit her humour high or low, For sometimes she would laugh and sometimes cry, Sometimes would waxen wroth, and all she knew not why. Fast by her side a listless virgin pin'd, With aching head and squeamish heartburnings; Pale, bloated, cold, she seemed to hate mankind, But loved in secret all forbidden things, And here the Tertian shook his chilling wings, And here the Gout, half tiger, half a snake, Rag'd with an hundred teeth, an hundred stings, These and a thousand furies more did shake Those weary realms, and kept ease-loving men awake. We give the concluding lines of Dr. Armstrong's Poem— The Art of
Preserving Health.
A POET he, and touched with heaven's own fire, Who, with bold rage or solemn pomp of sounds, Inflames, exalts, and ravishes the soul; Now tender, plaintive, sweet almost to pain, In love dissolves you; now in sprightly strains Breathes a gay rapture thro' your thrilling breast; Or melts the heart with airs divinely sad; Or wakes to horror the tremendous strings, Such was the Bard, whose heavenly strains of old Appeas'd the fiend of melancholy Saul. Such was, if old and heathen fame say true, The man who bade the Theban domes ascend, And tam'd the savage with his song; And such the Thracian, whose melodious lyre Tun'd to soft woe, made all the mountains weep; Sooth'd even th' inexorable powers of hell, And half redeem'd his lost Eurydice, Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, Expels diseases, softens every pain, Subdues the rage of poison and the plague; And hence the wife of ancient days ador'd One power of physic, melody, and song. |
