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Poem	XXXII. ? ON SIR JOHN ROE. (II) What two brave perils of the private sword Could not effect, nor all the Furies do, That self-divided Belgia did afford ; What not the envy of the seas reach'd to, The cold of Mosco, and fat Irish air, His often change of clime, though not of mind, What could not work ; at home, in his repair Was his blest fate, but our hard lot to find. Which shews, wherever death doth please t'appear, Seas, sérenes, swords, shot, sickness, all are there.
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