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Rh Anguish through every member flies, And all those inward gemonies Whereby frail flesh in torture dies. All the staid glories of thy face, Where sprightly youth lay checked with manly grace, Are now impaired, And quite by the rude hand of sickness marred. Thy body, where due symmetry In just proportions once did lie, Now hardly could be known, Its very figure out of fashion grown; And should thy soul to its old seat return, And life once more adjourn, 'Twould stand amazed to see its altered frame, And doubt (almost) whether its own carcass were the same. And here thy sickness does new matter raise Both for thy virtue and our praise; 'Twas here thy picture looked most neat, When deep'st in shades 'twas set, Thy virtues only thus could fairer be Advantaged by the foil of misery. Thy soul, which hastened now to be enlarged, And of its grosser load discharged, Began to act above its wonted rate, And gave a prelude of its next unbodied state. So dying tapers near their fall, When their own lustre lights their funeral, Contract their strength into one brighter fire, And in that blaze triumphantly expire; So the bright globe that rules the skies, Though he gild heaven with a glorious rise, Reserves his choicest beams to grace his set; And then he looks most great, And then in greatest splendour dies.