Thy Blood where Death triumph'd in greatest State,
Whose Purple seem'd the Badge of Tyrant-Fate,
And all thy Body o'er
Its ruling Colours bore:
That' which infected with the noxious Ill
But lately help'd to kill,
Whose Circulation fatal grew,
And thro' each part a swifter Ruin threw.
Now conscious, its own Murther would arraign,
And throngs to sally out at every Vein.
Each Drop a redder than its native Dye puts on,
As if in its own Blushes 'twould its Guilt atone.
A sacred Rubric does thy Carcass paint,
And Death in every Member writes thee Saint.
So Phaebus cloaths his dying Rays each Night,
And blushes he can live no longer to give Light.