Sons, like those of monstrous Birth,
When Serpents Teeth were sown in furrow'd Earth;
Enflam'd with Rage, and prone to mutual Hate,
With baneful Strife distract th'endanger'd State.
War now commences in itself a Good;
Quacks know no other Cure but letting Blood,
Ev'n when th'expiring Wretch already faints,
And not a Lancet, but a Cordial wants.
Those who could wish all Temples shut beside,
Ne're think the Gates of  set too wide,
For endless Slaughter, as a Blessing pray,
Farewell the humble Muse, and Shepherds peaceful Lay.