On juices, through the well-toned tubes, well strain’d;
A nice machine! scarce ever tuned aright;
And when it jars—thy syrens sing no more,
Thy dance is done; the demi-god is thrown
(Short apotheosis!) beneath the man,
In coward gloom immersed, or fell despair. 1290
Art thou yet dull enough despair to dread,
And startle at destruction? If thou art,
Accept a buckler, take it to the field;
(A field of battle is this mortal life!)