'Tis come, our fated day of death. - John Conington

Fury and wrath within me rave,
And tempt me to a warrior's grave.

At Orcus' portals hold their lair
Wild Sorrow and avenging Care;
And pale Diseases cluster there,
And pleasureless Decay
Foul Penury, and Fears that kill,
And Hunger, counsellor of ill,
A ghastly presence they:
Suffering and Death the threshold keep,
And with them Death's blood-brother, Sleep.

Then should some man of worth appear
Whose stainless virtue all revere, They hush, they list: his clear voice rules
Their rebel wills, their anger cools.