IV.

Say, is, not death then terrible enough, Ye Captains fierce, but ye must point his dart? Is man not made of perishable stuff, But ye must wing new shafts to pierce his heart? Say, is not famine, pestilence, the smart Of dire disease and suffering, toil and wo Enough, but Nature’s pangs must be by Art Deep multiplied till tears like Ocean flow, And shattering death-bolts fly, lest Death arrive too slow?