The sons of art all med'cines tried, And every noble remedy applied; With emulation each essayed His utmost skill; nay, more, they prayed: Never was losing game with better conduct played. 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 battered from afar With all the cannon of the medicinal war; No gentle means could be essayed, '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 Cæsar underwent The malice of their art, nor bent Beneath whate'er their pious rigour could invent. In five such days he suffered more Than any suffered in his reign before; More, infinitely more, than he, Against the worst of rebels could decree, A traitor, or twice pardoned enemy. Now art was tired without success, No racks could make the stubborn malady confess. The vain insurancers of life, And he who most performed, and promised less, Even Short[51] himself, forsook the unequal strife. Death and despair was 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 unconcernedly 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 looked as when he conquered and forgave. VII.