Here  spent her irksom Days,
Secluded both from Envy and from Praise.
Not so her laughing Moments us'd to run,
When her bright Eyes were like a Morning Sun:
When to her Flock repair'd the gazing Swains,
Her Flock was then the fairest of the Plains:
And she no less — with Veins of sprightly Blue,
And Cheeks like Roses wrap'd in Morning Dew,
The Loves and Graces round her Features flew.
Her Mind was chearful as the rising Day,
Mature as Summer and as  gay;
Yet Fate too soon eclips'd her early Joy,
She fell the Victim of the winged Boy,
The winged Boy that bears the fatal Darts:
Henceforth may Virgins better guard their Hearts.
'Twas  'twas he that caus'd her Pain,
The fairest Shepherd of the rural Train;
Whose careless Beauty made her Heart his Prize,
And stole the Slumbers from her wakeful Eyes.