all ye tender Nymphs and sighing Swains,
Hear how our  death complains
In Notes more sweet he doth his Sorrows tell,
Than the harmonious mournful .
With his sad Airs let all our Griefs combine,
And sighing Eccho in the Consort joyn;
Till o'er the pittying Plains the Tidings spread,
Darling  to  fled:
the tunefull'st Youth we knew among,
The softening Swains till gentle  Sung.
, whose Muse of all our blooming Grove,
Best pities Lovers and best Sings of Love;
Soft are thy Lines as the first tender Fire,
That warms the Breast e'er it commence Desire:
Thy moving Numbers all our Passions share,
Sigh, Languish, Weep, Just what we read we are.
By the soft Magick rais'd to Extacy,
With  love, and with him too we dy;
Had he addrest but in thy melting Strain,
(And he could do it, sure if any Swain.)
The Nymph in spite of her presuming Charms,
With Joy had yeilded to his wishing Arms.
Impatient Youth, that Death itself could bear,
Rather than scorns of the neglecting Fair:
But thus we fondly Rave to miss the Joy,
Love natural as Life, does Life destroy.
To Wit alone Passion does fatal prove,
Fools may be lew'd but know not how to Love;
Since it in learn'd Breasts such Woes create,
taking warning by great  Fate:
But to your Charms Caution does needless seem,
Fear less Love, on you need not dye like him.
For oh! what Nymph could e'er so stupid prove,
As not to melt if  Name but Love?
What pity 'twas the learn'd  dy'd,
The slighted Victim of a Virgins Pride.
Had'st thou been silent, it more Tears had cost,
Now half our Grief's in Admiration lost;
So well you Mourn the Shepherd's amorous Fate,
In such soft strains his sad fond Fall relate.
would himself quit Immortality,
To be in Death so sweetly Sung by thee.