THERE fled the fair, that all beholders charm'd,
Whose beauty fir'd us, and whose spirit warm'd!
In that sad sigh th' unwilling breath retir'd;
The grace, the glory of our scene expir'd!
And shall she die, the Muse's rites unpaid,
No grateful lays to deck her parting shade?
While on her bier the sister Graces mourn,
And weeping Tragedy bedews her urn?
While Comedy her chearful vein foregoes,
And learns to melt with unaccustom'd woes?