Our great physician daily to consult,
To commune with the grave, our only cure. 370
What grave prescribes the best?—A friend’s; and yet,
From a friend’s grave, how soon we disengage!
Even to the dearest, as his marble, cold.
Why are friends ravish’d from us? ’Tis to bind,
By soft affection’s ties, on human hearts,
The thought of death, which reason, too supine,
Or misemploy’d, so rarely fastens there.
Nor reason, nor affection, no, nor both