But ah! too soon, that smallest Comfort fled,
The vital Pow'rs no more defend,
Their noble Seat the Head.
Slowly, the Crimson Flood rolls, on,
And stagnates as it goes;
Too fast, the Silver Lymph does run,
And all the Brain o'erflows.
Thus have we known a Tyrant Prince,
In Peace, a Fort surprize:
The Foes unlook'd for, seize the Wall,
The Garrison o'er-number'd Fall,
A silent Sacrifice.