Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance

With timid eye to read the distant glance;

Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease,

To name the nameless ever new disease;

Who with mock patience dire complaints endure,

Which real pain and that alone can cure;

How would ye bear in real pain to lie,

Despised, neglected, left alone to die?

How would ye bear to draw your latest breath

Where all that’s wretched paves the way for death?