ON THE Universally Lamented DEATH Of the Incomparable D R. SHORT.  
A Pindaric Elegy.  

Stanza I.  
AH! What avails it to be Wise and Good!  
Great Merit with it's own Weight falls:  
Soon as Diffusive grown, and Understood,  
It strait from Hell pale Envy calls.  
Envy, whose squinting Eye  
Sees Faults, when only ' itself does look awry.  
Yet it no Mortal was, nor could it be  
Any on Earth, Best SHORT, could envy Thee.  
Thou all th' Attractives hadst, which use t'affect  
With dearest Love, and win profound Respect;  
And, Friend to All, no Enemy couldst suspect.  
'Twas none but Death, and Mankind's Foe that envied Thee.  
Death, from whose gaping Jaws thou hadst redeemed  
Such Multitudes, that Thin his Empire seemed.  
Enraged at this, the Lean-chapped Monster bend  
His Course to Hell, whose gloomy Vales descent  
Borders upon his Realm, the Grave;  
Of the Black Tyrant Audience to crave.  
Upon his Hairless Scalp a Wigg he wore  
Of Worms, that gaped dead Bodies to devour.  
A plaguy Vapour, grateful to the Stygian King,  
(For Holiday suit) about his Bones did cling;  
And in his Hand a chosen Dart, as sharp as Adders Sting.  
Arrived; his rattling Grinders silence broke,  
And, from his grinning Mouth, thus chattering spoke.   

II.  
'Twas half in vain your witty Art did cheat  
Adam, the Death-deriving Fruit to Eat;  
Unless your Victory you maintain,  
Sly Mankind will at length his points regain.  
Near Thamesis' rich Banks are packed 
* The College of Physicians  a Crew,  
Who strive your noble Spite with Art t'out do.  
Our common Grievance, Health, they, at command,  
Preserve, restore, with seldom-missing Hand.  
Diseases, our best Servants, which we send  
To bring cursed Mankind to his End,  
They at their Pleasure, as their Game, do kill;  
And Torture them with Hell-affronting Skill.  
Among the rest, there's one; who, not content  
With old Arts, strange new Methods does invent  
To Save the dwindling Slaves: Oft my wide Jaw  
Has he left Tantalised, Hungry my yearning Maw.  
By such large Steps his Art does climb,  
And mingles Natural Causes so,  
That in short time  
His Skill to Miracle may grow.  
 long he'll cancel, at this rate,  
The Adamantine Book of Fate.  
The very Sound of SHORT to Us  
Is ominous.  
So many of that Name,  
By crossing Us, have won great Fame,  
The Air that Echoes Him's Infectious.  
Who knows but his contriving Mind,  
Some Proxy to the Tree of Life may find?  
Then Woe to Death, and Woe to Hell;  
'Twere better Man had never fell.  
Alone I dare not him attack,  
Unless Yourself my oft-foiled Courage back.  
Then speak, Great Pluto, and your Counsel lend,  
To bring our Master-Foe t'a sudden End.   

III.  
Highly concerned at this complaining Speech  
Of Death, his eldest Son;  
Whom, in Time's Nonage, he begot  
Upon the first damned Hellish-Plot;  
Th'Infernal Tyrant did his Phang outreach,  
To shake him by his Hand of Bone;  
And thus, in Breath of Brimstone-Flame, begun:  
It must, it must be done.  
Dip thy keen Arrow in Cocytus' Flood;  
Dipped deep, and from the bottom stir th' envenomed Mudd;  
Then (see thou miss not) shoot just at his Heart  
The trebly-poisoned Dart:  
This will elude all Help of Art.  
He dipped it, and the Iro'n strait Rusty grew;  
Yet burnt with Fire that's Blue.  
Then, from his Augur-holes, Death took unerring aim,  
And struck his Heart with the Malignant Flame.  
SHORT felt the Stroke; and strait foretell his Friend,  
The Wound was Mortal, and would cause his End.  
Ah! too-true Prophet! Thy Prognostic Skill  
That seldom failed, in thy own Death was Undeceived still.   

iv  
When of his dangerous Sickness the News spread,  
Each Hearer looked like one halfdead.  
As, when a General's Mortal wound is told,  
The Courage of the Army strait grows cold;  
So the dampt Hearts of all his Patients fell:  
(And who was not, or would not be  
Related to his still-successful Skill?)  
And thought themselves in Danger well as Herald  
Each one did know  
How much to Him their Health and Life they owe.  
His Brother-Sons-of-Art  
In his Recovery strove to have some part.  
Above the rest, Great BROWN (the double Heir  
Of Norwich-Oracle; and Learned TERN)  
No Watching, no Solicitude did spare,  
To do his Utmost in this dear Concern.  
Had Fate been willing too,  
His Skill things half-impossible could do.  
He could all Rubs, but Destiny, controwl:  
No wonder; SHORT and He had but one Soul.  
But Art, by Friendship heightened, was too weak  
Of Causes the Firm-linked Chain to break.  
The deeply-coucht Malignant Ill  
From its close Ambush mocked all Skill.  
Valour itself did never know  
How to Subdue an unseen Foe.  
The venomous Taint soon Conquered every part,  
By seizing first the vigorous Nerves, and, next, Life's Seat, the Heart.