Nor doubts death soon will bring that wish’d-for close;
For now her frame, her mind, confess disease;
Painful and faint she moves; her tottering knees
Scarce bear her weight; and oft, by humour moved,
Her sickening soul now loathes what late it loved.
It comes! the moment comes! Her frame is rent
By sharper pangs; her nerves, too strongly bent,
Seem on the point to break; her forehead burns;
Her curdling blood is fire, is ice by turns;
Her heart-strings crack!—“This hour is sure her last!’