And will not the severe excuse a sigh?
Scorn the proud man that is ashamed to weep;
Our tears indulged, indeed deserve our shame.
Ye that e’er lost an angel! pity me. 110
Soon as the lustre languish’d in her eye,
Dawning a dimmer day on human sight;
And on her cheek, the residence of spring,
Pale omen sat; and scatter’d fears around
On all that saw; (and who would cease to gaze,
That once had seen?) with haste, parental haste,