On Sir John Roe

What two brave perils of the private sword
Could not effect, nor all the Furies do,
That self-divided Belgia did afford;
What not the envy of the seas reached to, .
The cold of Mosco, and fat Irish air,
His often change of clime, though not of mind,
All could not work; at home, in his repair,
Was his blest fate, but our hard lot to find.
Which shews, wherever death doth please t' appear,
Seas, serenes, swords, shot, sickness, all are there.