With dust dishonor’d, and deform’d with gore.
As the young olive in some sylvan scene,
Crown’d by fresh fountains with eternal green,
Lifts the gay head, in snowy flowrets fair,
And plays and dances to the gentle air;
When lo! a whirlwind from high heav’n invades
The tender plant, and withers all its shades;
It lies uprooted from its genial bed,
A lovely ruin now defac’d and dead.
Thus young, thus beautiful, Euphorbus lay,