Who can unpitying see the flowery race,
Shed by the morn, their new-flush'd bloom resign,
Before th' unbating beam? So fade the fair,
When fevers revel thro' their azure veins.
But one, the follower of the sun, they say,
Sad when he sets shuts up her yellow leaves.
Weeping all night; and, when he warm returns,
Points her enamour'd bosom to his ray.