While thro' the Press enrag'd  flies,
And scatters Deaths around from both her Eyes,
A  and  perish'd in the Throng,
One dy'd in  and one in
O cruel Nymph! a living Death I bear,
Cry'd  and sunk beside his Chair.
A mournful Glance Sir  upwards cast,
— was his last:
Thus on  flow'ry Margin lies
Th' expiring Swan, and as he sings he dies.