In those affairs, O awfullest of all,O pitiable most was this, was this:Whoso once saw himself in that diseaseEntangled, ay, as damned unto death,Would lie in wanhope, with a sullen heart,Would, in fore-vision of his funeral,Give up the ghost, O then and there. For, lo,At no time did they cease one from anotherTo catch contagion of the greedy plague,-As though but woolly flocks and horned herds;And this in chief would heap the dead on dead:For who forbore to look to their own sick,O these (too eager of life, of death afeard)Would then, soon after, slaughtering NeglectVisit with vengeance of evil death and base-Themselves deserted and forlorn of help.But who had stayed at hand would perish thereBy that contagion and the toil which thenA sense of honour and the pleading voiceOf weary watchers, mixed with voice of wailOf dying folk, forced them to undergo.This kind of death each nobler soul would meet.The funerals, uncompanioned, forsaken,Like rivals contended to be hurried through. . . . . . .And men contending to ensepulchrePile upon pile the throng of their own dead:And weary with woe and weeping wandered home;And then the most would take to bed from grief.Nor could be found not one, whom nor diseaseNor death, nor woe had not in those dread timesAttacked.