The sons of art all medicines tried, And every noble remedy applied; With emulation each essay'd His utmost skill, nay more, they pray'd: Never was losing game with better conduct play'd. Death never won a stake with greater toil, Nor e'er was fate so near a foil: But like a fortress on a rock, The impregnable disease their vain attempts did mock; They mined it near, they batter'd from afar With, all the cannon of the medicinal war; No gentle means could be essay'd, 'Twas beyond parley when the siege was laid: The extremest ways they first ordain, Prescribing such intolerable pain, As none but Cæsar could sustain: Undaunted Csesar underwent The malice of their art, nor bent Beneath whate'er their pious rigour could invent: In five such days he suffer'd more Than any suffer'd in his reign before; More, infinitely more, than he, Against the worst of rebels, could decree, A traitor, or twice pardon'd enemy. Now art was tried without success, No racks could make the stubborn malady confess. The vain insurancers of life, And they who most perform'd and promised less, Even Short and Hobbes[91] forsook the unequal strife. Death and despair were in their looks, No longer they consult their memories or books; Like helpless friends, who view from shore The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar; So stood they with their arms across; Not to assist, but to deplore The inevitable loss. VI. Death was denounced; that frightful sound Which even the best can hardly bear, He took the summons void of fear; And unconcern'dly cast his eyes around; As if to find and dare the grisly challenger. What death could do he lately tried, When in four days he more than died. The same assurance all his words did grace; The same majestic mildness held its place: Nor lost the monarch in his dying face. Intrepid, pious, merciful, and brave, He look'd as when he conquer'd and forgave. VII.