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250 As if by lingering methods Heaven meant To chase you hence, and tire you to consent. But, thus in vain, fate did to force resort, And next by storm strove to attack the fort; A sleep, dull as your last, did you arrest, And all the magazines of life possessed. No more the blood its circling course did run, But in the veins, like icicles, it hung; No more the heart, now void of quickening heat, The tuneful march of vital motion beat; Stiffness did into all the sinews climb, And a short death crept cold through every limb; All signs of life from sight so far withdrew, 'Twas now thought Popery to pray for you. There might you (were not that sense lost) have seen How your true death would have resented been: A lethargy like yours each breast did seize, And all by sympathy caught your disease. Around you silent imagery appears, And nought in the spectators moves, but tears; They pay what grief were to your funeral due, And yet dare hope Heaven would your life renew. Meanwhile, all means, all drugs, prescribèd are, Which the decays of health or strength repair, Medicines so powerful they new souls would save, And life in long-dead carcasses retrieve. But, these in vain, they rougher methods try, And now you're martyred that you may not die. Sad scene of fate! when tortures were your gain, And 'twas a kindness thought to wish you pain! As if the slackened string of life run down, Could only by the rack be screwed in tune. But Heaven at last, grown conscious that its power Could scarce what was to die with you restore, And loth to see such glories overcome, Sent a post angel to repeal your doom; Straight Fate obeyed the charge which Heaven sent, And gave this first dear proof it could repent.