Skill’d to correct the vices of the sky, 500
And taught already how to each extream
To bend your life. But should the public bane
Infect you, or some trespass of your own,
Or flaw of nature hint mortality:
Soon as a not unpleasing horror glides 505
Along the spine, thro’ all your torpid limbs;
When first: the head throbs, or the stomach feels
A sickly load, a weary pain the loins;
Be Celsus call’d: The fates come rushing on;