Sparkles instruction; such as throws new light, And opens more the character of Death; Ill known to thee, Lorenzo! This thy vaunt: "Give Death his due, the wretched, and the old; Even let him sweep his rubbish to the grave; Let him not violate kind Nature's laws, But own man born to live as well as die." Wretched and old thou givest him; young and gay He takes; and plunder is a tyrant's joy. What if I prove, "The farthest from the fear, 790 Are often nearest to the stroke of Fate?" All, more than common, menaces an end. A blaze betokens brevity of life: As if bright embers should emit a flame, Glad spirits sparkled from Narcissa's eye, And made youth younger, and taught life to live, 796 As Nature's opposites wage endless war, For this offence, as treason to the deep Inviolable stupor of his reign, Where Lust, and turbulent Ambition, sleep, Death took swift vengeance. As he life detests, More life is still more odious; and, reduced By conquest, aggrandizes more his power. 803 But wherefore aggrandized? By Heaven's decree, To plant the soul on her eternal guard, In awful expectation of our end. Thus runs Death's dread commission: "Strike, but so As most alarms the living by the dead." Hence stratagem delights him, and surprise, And cruel sport with man's securities. 810 Not simple conquest, triumph is his aim; And, where least fear'd, there conquest triumphs most. This proves my bold assertion not too bold. What are his arts to lay our fears asleep? Tiberian arts his purposes wrap up In deep dissimulation's darkest night. Like princes unconfess'd in foreign courts, Who travel under cover, Death assumes The name and look of life, and dwells among us. He takes all shapes that serve his black designs: 820 Though master of a wider empire far Than that o'er which the Roman eagle flew. Like Nero, he's a fiddler, charioteer, Or drives his phaeton, in female guise; Quite unsuspected, till, the wheel beneath, His disarray'd oblation he devours. He most affects the forms least like himself, His slender self. Hence burly corpulence Is his familiar wear, and sleek disguise. Behind the rosy bloom he loves to lurk, 830 Or ambush in a smile; or wanton dive In dimples deep; love's eddies, which draw in Unwary hearts, and sink them in despair. Such, on Narcissa's couch he loiter'd long Unknown; and, when detected, still was seen To smile; such peace has innocence in death! Most happy they! whom least his arts deceive. One eye on Death, and one full fix'd on heaven, Becomes a mortal, and immortal man. Long on his wiles a piqued and jealous spy, 840 I've seen, or dreamt I saw, the tyrant dress; Lay by his horrors, and put on his smiles.