And if by death; what death?—Know you disease?
Or horrid war?—With war, this fatal hour, 1782
Europa groans (so call we a small field,
Where kings run mad). In our world, Death deputes
Intemperance to do the work of Age;
And hanging up the quiver Nature gave him,
As slow of execution, for despatch
Sends forth imperial butchers; bids them slay
Their sheep (the silly sheep they fleeced before),
And toss him twice ten thousand at a meal. 1790