Had he fal'n there, it had been true perchance,
Wickham's Third College might be found in France.
But he return'd from thence, curb'd Neptune's pride,
And, to our fame and grief, came home, and died.
Thus, when the Heav'n has wheel'd its daily race
About our earth, at night its glorious face
Is pox'd with stars, yet Heaven admits no blot,
And every pimple there's a beauty-spot.
Short-liv'd disease, that canst be cured and gone
50By one sweet morning's resurrection!