ON THE Universally Lamented DEATH Of the Incomparable DR. SHORT.

A Pindarick 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 straight from Hell pale Envy calls.
Envy, whose squinting Eye
Sees Faults, when only' it self 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 could'st suspect.
'Twas none but Death, and Mankind's Foe that envy'd Thee.
Death, from whose gaping Jaws thou hadst redeem'd
Such Multitudes, that Thin his Empire seem'd.
Enrag'd at this, the Lean-chapt Monster bent
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 gap't dead Bodies to devour.
A plaguy Vapour, grateful to the Stygian King,
(For Holy-day suit) about his Bones did cling;
And in his Hand a chosen Dart, as sharp as Adders Sting.
Arriv'd; 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.
Neer Thamesis's rich Banks are pack't
The Col­ledge 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 curst 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 Tantaliz'd, 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.
E're long Hee'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 Ayr that Ecchoes 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 attacque,
Unless Your self my oft-foil'd Courage back.
Then speak, Great Pluto, and your Counsel lend,
To bring our Master-Foe t'a sudden End.
III.
Highly concern'd at this complaining Speech
Of Death, his eldest Son;
Whom, in Time's Non-age, he begot
Upon the first damn'd Hellish-Plot;
Th'Infernal Tyrant did his Phang out-reach,
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;
Dip't deep, and from the bottom stirr th' envenom'd Mudd;
Then (see thou miss not) shoot just at his Heart
The trebly-poison'd Dart:
This will elude all Help of Art.
He dipt it, and the Iro'n straight Rusty grew;
Yet burnt with Fire that's Blew.
Then, from his Augur-holes, Death took unerring aym,
And struck his Heart with the Malignant Flame.
SHORT felt the Stroke; and straight fore-told his Friend,
The Wound was Mortal, and would cause his End.
Ah! too-true Prophet! Thy Prognostick Skill
That seldome fail'd, in thy own Death was Undeceived still.
IV.
When of his dangerous Sickness the News spread,
Each Hearer lookt like one half-Dead.
As, when a General's Mortal wound is told,
The Courage of the Army straight 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 He.
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 Sollicitude 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 Rubbs, but Destiny, controwl:
No wonder; SHORT and He had but one Soul.
But Art, by Friendship heighten'd, was too weak
Of Causes the Firm-linked Chain to break.
The deeply-coucht Malignant Ill
From its close Ambush mockt all Skill.
Valour it self did never know
How to Subdue an unseen Foe.
The venomous Taint soon Conquer'd every part,
By seizing first the vigorous Nerves, and, next, Life's Seat, the Heart.

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Text Creation Partnership. Searching, reading, printing, or downloading EEBO-TCP texts is reserved for the authorized users of these project partner institutions. Permission must be granted for subsequent distribution, in print or electronically, of this EEBO-TCP Phase II text, in whole or in part.