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Poem	O King of Terrors, whose unbounded Sway All that have Life, must certainly Obey; The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are Thine, Nor wou'd ev'n God (in Flesh) thy Stroke decline. My Name is on thy Roll, and sure I must Encrease thy gloomy Kingdom in the Dust. My soul at this no Apprehension feels, But trembles at thy Swords, thy Racks, thy Wheels; Thy scorching Fevers, which distract the Sense, And snatch us raving, unprepar'd from hence; At thy contagious Darts, that wound the Heads Of weeping Friends, who wait at dying Beds. Spare these, and let thy Time be when it will; My Bus'ness is to Dye, and Thine to Kill. Gently thy fatal Sceptre on me lay, And take to thy cold Arms, insensibly, thy Prey.
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