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 Caesar 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.