The Soul, unable longer to maintain
The fruitless and unequal Strife,
Finding her weak Endeavours vain,
To keep the Counterscarp of Life,
By slow degrees retires toward the Heart,
And fortifies that little Fort
With all the kind Artilleries of Art;
Botanick Legions guarding ev'ry Port.
But Death, whose Arms no Mortal can repel,
A formal Siege disdains to lay,
Summons his fierce Battalions to the Fray,
And in a minute storms the feeble Cittadel.
Sometimes we may capitulate, and he
Pretends to make a solid Peace,
But 'tis all Sham, all Artifice;
That we may negligent and careless be:
For if his Armies are withdrawn to day,
And we believe no Danger near,
But all is peaceable, and all is clear,
His Troops return some unsuspected way,
While in the soft Embrace of Sleep we lie,
The secret Murd'rers stab us, and we die.