Kings may be blest but Tam was glorious, O'er a'the ills o' life victorious!
A potent quack, long versed in human ills, Who first insults the victim whom he kills; Whose murd'rous hand a drowsy bench protect, And whose most tender mercy is neglect.
All the ills of mankind spring from belonging to a race, a nation, a city, a group of some kind. The ideal would be to belong to none, and to care for allbut who is capable of that?
Alas, regardless of their doom, The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day.
Like Shelleyand like Baudelaire it may be said of himthat he suffered, in his own person, the neurotic ills of an entire generation.
Yet hope not life from grief or danger free, Nor think the doom of man reversed for thee: Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, And pause awhile from letters, to be wise; There mark what ills the scholar's life assail, Toil, envy, want, the patron and the jail.
Here lies a lady of beauty and high degree. Of chills and fever she died, of fever and chills, The delight of her husband, her aunts, an infant of three, And of medicos marvelling sweetly on her ills.