Classic Poem

So long as man is well he can sustain
The killing hand of cold and hunger's pain—
Tighten his belt in famished fortitude,
And breathe more deeply in the deadly feud.

But when he sickens, confidence takes flight,
Leaving the feeble bed and fevered blight.
He loathes the lazar's diet all unsweet,
And creeps to ague's bath with staggering feet.

And if he summon strength to muse upon
His plight when appetite and health have gone,
He finds small choice between the horns of fate:
For harsh health slays, and ills annihilate!