Yet _Poverty_ does leave the Man entire, But _Sickness_ nearer Mischiefs does conspire; Invades the Body with a loath'd Embrace, Prides both its Strength, and Beauty to deface; Nor does its Malice in these bounds restrain, But shakes the Throne of Sacred Wit, the Brain, And with a ne're enough detested Force Reason disturbs, and turns out of its Course. Again, when Nature some Rare Piece has made, On which her Utmost Skill she seems t'ave laid, Polish't, adorn'd the Work with moving Grace, And in the Beauteous Frame a Soul doth place, So perfectly compos'd, it makes Divine Each Motion, Word, and Look from thence does shine; This Goodly Composition, the Delight Of ev'ry Heart, and Joy of ev'ry sight, Its peevish Malice has the Power to spoyle, And with a Sully'd Hand its Lusture soyle. The Grief were Endless, that should all bewaile, Against whose sweet Repose thou dost prevail: Some freeze with Agues, some with Feavers burn, Whose Lives thou half out of their Holds dost turn; And of whose Sufferings it may be said, They living feel the very State o'th' Dead. Thou in a thousand sev'ral Forms are drest, And in them all dost Wretched Man infest. And yet as if these Evils were too few, _Men_ their own Kind with hostile Aims pursue; Not Heavens fierce Wrath, nor yet the Hate of Hell, Not any Plague that e're the World befel, Not Inundations, Famines, Fires blind rage, Did ever Mortals equally engage, As Man does Man, more skilful to annoy, Both Mischievous and Witty to destroy. The bloody Wolf, the Wolf does not pursue; The Boar, though fierce, his Tusk will not embrue In his own Kind, Bares, not on Bares do prey: Then art thou, Man, more savage far than they.