“But now the plague, grown to a larger size, Riots on man, and scorns a meaner prize. Intestine heats begin the civil war, And flushings first the latent flame declare, And breath inspired, which seem’d like fiery air. Their black dry tongues are swell’d, and scarce can move, And short thick sighs from panting lungs are drove; They gape for air, with flattering hopes to abate Their raging flames, but that augments their heat. No bed, no covering, can the wretches bear, But on the ground, exposed to open air, They lie, and hope to find a pleasing coolness there. The suffering earth, with that oppression cursed, Returns the heat which they imparted first.

“In vain physicians would bestow their aid, Vain all their art, and useless all their trade; And they, even they, who fleeting life recall, Feel the same powers, and undistinguish’d fall. If any proves so daring to attend His sick companion, or his darling friend, The officious wretch sucks in contagious breath, And with his friend does sympathize in death.