The Plague of Athens, which hapned in the second year of the Peloponnesian Warre · Thomas Sprat
XXI.
There was no number now of death, The sisters scarce stood still themselves to breath: The sisters now quite wearied In cutting single thred, Began at once to part whole looms, One stroak did give whole houses dooms; Now dy’d the frosty hairs, The Aged and decrepid years, They fell, and onely beg’d of Fate, Some few months more, but ’twas alas too late. Then Death, as if asham’d of that, A Conquest so degenerate, Cut off the young and lusty too; The young were reck’ning ore What happy dayes, what joyes they had in store; But Fate, e’re they had finish’d their account, them slew. The wretched Usurer dyed, And had no time to tell where he his treasures hid. The Merchant did behold His Ships return with Spice and Gold, He saw’t, and turn’d aside his head, Nor thank’d the Gods, but fell amidst his riches dead.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.