Classic Poem

In vain we grieve, in vain we waste our Eyes,
And with Expostulations rend the Skies;
All our Complaints we must on Ratcliffe spend,
Who, for his Pleasure, can neglect his Friend:
By whose Delays more Patients sure have dy'd,
Than by the Drugs of others, misapply'd.
Three Bottles keep him, and for their dear Sake,
Three Kingdoms unregarded lie at Stake.
A saucy Humour, thus to over-rate
His Pleasure and his Ease, to come too late
To such a Prince , the Hopes of such a State.
Alas!
To throw away some common Life's a Crime,
That one can ne'er atone for all his Time;
But to neglect a Life of such a Price,
Swells the Offence to a much larger Size;
The Guilt must, as our Loss, in Measure rise.
In him we all had liv'd; his single Fate
Therefore must needs affect the publick State.
So choice a Member from the Body torn,
Leaves the rest bleeding; for, to say we mourn,
Do's not enough express our solemn Grief,
Such as can scarce admit, or find Relief.
Who can forgive? And yet forgive we must,
For he's the only Man that we can trust;
Bewitch'd with Apprehensions of his Skill,
We thereby give him Pow'r and Leave to kill.
If by his future Care he wou'd retrieve
His Fame, and thereby Satisfaction give,
Let him (and 'tis the least that he can do)
His boasted Immortality bestow.