Classic Poem

D E ath, art thou grown so nice? can nothing please
Thy curious palate, but such Cates as these?
Or hath thy ravenous stomach been o'rprest
With common dyct at thy last great feast?
Or hast thou fed so neare that there is none
Now left but delicates to feed upon?
Or was this dish so tempting, that no power
Was left in thee to stay another hower?
Or didst thou feed by chance, and not observ'd
What food it was, but tooke as fortune carv'd?
'Tis done. Be it or Fortune's act or thine,
It fed the one, whose want made Millions pine.