With rattling lungs now gone beyond repair;
When on each feature death had fix'd his stamp,
And not a doctor could the body vamp;
Still at the last, to his beloved bowl
He clung, and cheer'd the sadness of his soul;
For, though a man may not have much to fear,
Yet death looks ugly, when the view is near.
190
—'I go,' he said, 'but still my friends shall say,
'Twas as a man—I did not sneak away;