On the Snuff of a Candle; Made in Sickness

See there the taper's dim and doleful light, In gloomy waves silently rolls about, And represents to my dim weary sight My light of life almost as near burnt out.

Ah, health! best part and substance of our joy, (For without thee 'tis nothing but a shade) Why dost thou partially thyself employ, Whilst thy proud foes as partially invade?

What we, who ne'er enjoy, so fondly seek, Those who possess thee still, almost despise; To gain immortal glory, raise the weak, Taught by their former want thy worth to prize.

Dear melancholy Muse, my constant guide, Charm this coy health back to my fainting heart, Or I'll accuse thee of vain-glorious pride, And swear thou dost but feign the moving art.

But why do I upbraid thee, gentle Muse; Who for all sorrows mak'st me some amends? Alas! our sickly minds sometimes abuse Our best physicians, and our dearest friends.