This Little, Silent, Gloomy Monument, Contains all that was sweet and innocent ; The softest pratler that e'er found a Tongue, His Voice was Musick and his Words a Song ;...
How, to thy Sacred Memory, shall I bring (Worthy thy Fame) a grateful Offering? I, who by Toils of Sickness, am become Almost as near as thou art to a Tomb? While every soft, and every tender Strain...
Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore, The Young, the Noble Strephon is no more. Yes, yes, he fled quick as departing Light, And ne're shall rise from Deaths eternal Night,...