On his past life—were frightful to excess;
His favourite dinners were no more enjoy’d, 150
And, in a word, his spirits were destroy’d.
And what of Phœbe? She her measures plann’d;
All but his money was at her command;
All would be hers, when Heav’n her Friend should call;
But Heav’n was slow, and much she long’d for all:—
“Mine when he dies, mean wretch! and why not mine,
When it would prove him generous to resign
What he enjoys not!”—Phœbe, at command,