When he goes proudly laden with the fruit
Which health, or strength, or beauty contribute;
Yet,—as the mounted cannon batters down
40The towers and goodly structures of a town,—
So one short sickness will his force defeat,
And his frail citadel to rubbish beat.
How does a dropsy melt him to a flood,
Making each vein run water more than blood?
A colic wracks him like a northern gust,
And raging fevers crumble him to dust.