94
The Complaint.
Night 5.
Tho' from the stately Cedar's Arms she fell;
With stale, forewarn Embraces, clings anew,
The Stranger weds, and blossoms, as before,
In all the fruitless Fopperies of Life:
Presents her Weed, well-fansy'd, at the Ball,
And raffles for the Death's-Head on the Ring.
So wept Aurelia, till the destin'd Youth
Stept in, with his Receipt for making Smiles,
And blanching Sables into bridal Bloom.
So wept Lorenzo fair Clarissa's Fate;
Who gave that Angel Boy, on whom he doats;
And dy'd to give him, orphan'd in his Birth!
Not such, Narcissa, my Distress for Thee.
I'll make an Altar of thy sacred Tomb,
To sacrifice to Wisdom.—What wast Thou?
"Young, Gay, and Fortunate!" Each yields a Theme.
I'll dwell on each, to shun Thought more severe;
(Heav'n knows I labour with feverer still!)
I'll dwell on each, and quite exhaust thy Death.
A Soul without Reflection, like a Pile
Without Inhabitant, to Ruin runs.
And, First, thy Youth. What says it to Grey Hairs?
Narcissa, I'm become thy Pupil now—
Early, Bright, Transient, Chaste, as Morning Dew,
She sparkled, was exhal'd, and went to Heav'n.
Time on this Head has snow'd; yet till 'tis borne
Aloft; nor thinks but on another's Grave.
Cover'd with Shame I speak it, Age severe
Old worn-out Vice sets down for Virtue fair;
With graceless Gravity, chastising Youth,
That Youth chastis'd surpassing in a Fault,
Father of all, Forgetfulness of Death:
As if, like Objects pressing on the Sight,
Death had advanc'd too near us to be seen:
Or, that Life's Loan Time ripen'd into Right;
With stale, forewarn Embraces, clings anew,
The Stranger weds, and blossoms, as before,
In all the fruitless Fopperies of Life:
Presents her Weed, well-fansy'd, at the Ball,
And raffles for the Death's-Head on the Ring.
So wept Aurelia, till the destin'd Youth
Stept in, with his Receipt for making Smiles,
And blanching Sables into bridal Bloom.
So wept Lorenzo fair Clarissa's Fate;
Who gave that Angel Boy, on whom he doats;
And dy'd to give him, orphan'd in his Birth!
Not such, Narcissa, my Distress for Thee.
I'll make an Altar of thy sacred Tomb,
To sacrifice to Wisdom.—What wast Thou?
"Young, Gay, and Fortunate!" Each yields a Theme.
I'll dwell on each, to shun Thought more severe;
(Heav'n knows I labour with feverer still!)
I'll dwell on each, and quite exhaust thy Death.
A Soul without Reflection, like a Pile
Without Inhabitant, to Ruin runs.
And, First, thy Youth. What says it to Grey Hairs?
Narcissa, I'm become thy Pupil now—
Early, Bright, Transient, Chaste, as Morning Dew,
She sparkled, was exhal'd, and went to Heav'n.
Time on this Head has snow'd; yet till 'tis borne
Aloft; nor thinks but on another's Grave.
Cover'd with Shame I speak it, Age severe
Old worn-out Vice sets down for Virtue fair;
With graceless Gravity, chastising Youth,
That Youth chastis'd surpassing in a Fault,
Father of all, Forgetfulness of Death:
As if, like Objects pressing on the Sight,
Death had advanc'd too near us to be seen:
Or, that Life's Loan Time ripen'd into Right;
And
