Who pines in Love, or wastes with silent Cares, 425
Envy, or Ignominy, or tender Grief,
Slowly descends and ling’ring to the shades.
But he whom Anger stings, drops, if he dies,
At once, and rushes apoplectic down;
Or a fierce fever hurries him to hell. 430
For, as the Body thro’ unnumber’d strings
Reverberates each vibration of the Soul;
As is the Passion, such is still the Pain
The Body feels; or chronic, or acute.