HOW cold is that bosom which folly once fired,
How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glistend;
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired,
How dull is that ear which to flattry so listend!
If sorrow and anguish their exit await,
From friendship and dearest affection removd;
How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate,
Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlovd.
Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you;
So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear:
But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true,
And flowers let us cull for Marias cold bier.
Well search through the garden for each silly flower,
Well roam thro the forest for each idle weed;
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower,
For none eer approachd her but rued the rash deed.
Well sculpture the marble, well measure the lay;
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre;
There keen Indignation shall dart on his prey,
Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire.