And we whom thou hast left behind,
Are all employ'd about thee too;
Altho thy Worth too great a Theme we find,
At least our Gratitude in Grief we show.
Our best Encomiums but prophane thy Name,
Unless successful  artful Line;
That only Rival of so great a Fame,
Can Justice do to thine.
My well meant  blushing I must rear,
Unkind  affords no Aid,
Tho' I so often beg'd and pray'd,
My softer Voice she would not hear.
Amongst the mighty Men she's busie now,
Tis they I find best charm immortal Females too;
Tho' she'll not teach how I shall Numbers keep,
My Admiration in Heroick's dress,
Or in a softer Ode my Griefs express,
Tis my own Fault being Woman, if I fail to weep.
Since this great Man insatiate Fate obey'd,
How is Wit's Empire lessen'd and decay'd?
It scarce a Province now appears,
Come then let's joyn our Tears;
Cease not till an Ocean flow,
Twine round the Muses Plat, till it an Island grow,
There let's possess her constant Joys,
Spite, Poverty and Noise.
Tho' bounded safe with a  Sea,
They ne'er must hope their Isles the Fortunate will be.