On Dr. Sangrado's Flight

On prancing steed, with spunge at nose,
From town behold Sangrado fly;
Camphor and Tar where'er he goes
Th' infected shafts of death defy--
Safe in an atmosphere of scents,
He leaves us to our own defence.

'Twas right to fly! for well, I ween,
In Stygian worlds, all scribes agree,
No blushing blossom e'er was seen,
Or running brook, or budding tree:
No splendid meats, no flowing bowls,
Smile on the meagre feast of souls:

No sprightly songs, to banish grief,
No balls, the Elysian beaus prepare,
And he that throve on rounds of beef,
On onion shells shall famish there--
Monarchs are there of little note,
And Cæsar wears a shabby coat.

Chloes on earth, of air and shape,
Whose eyes destroy'd poor love-lorn wights,
There lower their topsails to the cap,
Rig in their booms and furl their kites:--
Where Cupid's bow was never bent,
What lover asks a maid's consent?

All this, and more, Sangrado knew,
(In Lucian is the story told)
Took horse--clapped spurs--and off he flew,
Leaving his Sick to fret and scold;
Some soldiers, thus, to honour lost,
In day of battle quit their post.