Let them with Armstrong, taking leave of sense, Read musty lecture lectures on Benevolence, Or con the pages of his gaping Day, Where all his former fame was thrown away, Where all but barren labour was forgot, And the vain stiffness of a letter'd Scot; Let them with Armstrong pass the term of light, But not one hour of darkness: when the night Suspends this mortal coil, when mem'ry wakes, When for our past misdoings, conscience takes A deep revenge, when, by reflection led, She draws his curtains, and looks comfort dead, Let ev'ry muse ge gone; in vain he turns, And tries to pray for sleep; an Aetna burns, A more than Aetna, in his coward breast, And guilt, with vengeance arm'd, forbids him rest: Though soft as plumage from young Zephyr's wing, His couch seems hard, and no relief can bring; Ingratitude hath planted daggers there No good man can deserve, no brave man bear.
