Page:The dispensary - a poem in six canto's (sic) (IA b30356775).pdf/91

 When Honour's lost 'tis a Relief to die; Death's but a sure Retreat from Infamy. But to the lost, if Pity might be shown, Reflect on young Querpoïdes thy Son; Then pity mine, for such an Infant-Grace Smiles in his Eyes, and flatters in his Face. If he was near, Compassion he'd create, Or else lament his wretched Parent's Fate. Thine is the Glory, and the Field is thine; To thee the lov'd Dispens'ry I resign.

At this the Victors own such Extasies, As Memphian Priests if their Osiris sneeze; Or Champions with Olympick Clangour fir'd; Or simpring Prudes with sprightly Nantz inspir'd; Or Sultans rais'd from Dungeons to a Crown; Or fasting Zealots when the Sermon's done.

A while the Chief the deadly Stroak declin'd, And found Compassion pleading in his Mind, But whilst he view'd with Pity the Distress'd, He spy'd Signetur writ upon his Breast. Then tow'rds the Skies he toss'd his threatning Head, And fir'd with more than mortal Fury, said

Sooner than I'll from vow'd Revenge desist, His Holiness shall turn a Quietist, Jansenius and the Jesuits agree, The Inquisition wink at Heresie, Warm