“My race is run, life’s fleeting vision o’er.”
Thus did the sad Lothario vent his grief,
Till balmy sleep bestow’d a short relief.
On mossy pillows rests his drooping head,
While azure curtains hang around his bed.
All night [extended] on the turf he lay,
Nor op’d his eyes till dawning of the day:
The chilling frost his tender form had seiz’d,
But Phœbus’ beams the captive swain releas’d,
Abash’d, confounded, being thus confin’d,