On
the
death
of
dear
Statyra
.
Begone
my
Muse
,
Tears
quench
thy
sacred
Fire
,
True
Grief
,
like
Love
,
without
thee
can
inspire
.
Mod'rate
Sorrows
may
be
told
with
Art
,
But
the
Distractions
of
my
troubled
Heart
With
sad
Confusion
I
must
needs
express
,
My
Verse
will
,
like
my
Sighs
,
be
numberless
.
Ah
,
cruel
Death
!
why
was't
thou
so
severe
,
To
take
the
Young
,
the
Witty
,
and
the
Fair
,
The
gay
Satyra
in
her
blooming
days
:
Could
no
less
Feast
serve
thy
luxurious
Jaws
?
Would
not
the
old
or
discontented
do
?
Those
whom
Misfortune
forc'd
to
wish
for
you
.
No
those
I
by
experience
find
you
fly
;
And
'tis
not
those
we
would
,
but
those
you
please
,
must
dy
.
Guide
me
,
some
Friend
,
if
I
have
any
one
,
Whom
Grief
has
spar'd
since
dear
Statyra's
gone
:
Lead
me
,
I
say
,
to
some
sad
Cyprise
shade
,
Dark
as
the
Grave
of
the
once
lovely
Maid
;
There
let
me
ever
mourn
the
Friend
I've
lost
:
Ye
Gods
,
why
was
Statyra
made
a
Ghost
?
I
can
no
more
gaze
on
that
charming
Face
,
Hear
that
sweet
Voice
,
nor
have
one
dear
Imbrace
;
View
that
soft
Air
and
Mien
,
and
sport
and
play
,
As
we
was
wont
on
Summer-banks
each
day
.
Ye
pleasant
Walks
whom
she
so
oft
did
grace
,
Who's
Charms
did
dart
a
Glory
round
the
place
.
Keep
on
your
dismal
Hue
,
let
not
the
Spring
Put
on
your
fresh
Attire
,
nor
Summer
bring
.
The
less
gay
verdant
Look
ye
Birds
be
still
,
Sound
not
one
Note
unless
sad
Philomel
.
Each
lofty
Tree
hang
down
your
stately
Head
,
Bud
forth
no
more
now
gay
Statyra's
dead
;
But
let
your
naked
Boughs
be
ever
join'd
In
murmuring
Sorrows
with
the
sighing
Wind
:
No
Blow
,
no
Wind
to
move
the
yielding
Bough
,
My
louder
Sighs
will
do
that
Office
now
.
Keep
back
your
force
ye
Springs
that
grace
the
Woods
,
My
Tears
alone
will
swell
you
into
Floods
:
And
all
too
little
for
the
Friend
I
grieve
,
Now
she
is
gone
'tis
not
worth
while
to
live
.