ix.
And thou, my song, sad child of my despair, Complain no more; but since thy wretched fate Improves her happier lot who gave thee birth, Be all thy sorrows buried in my tomb.
None of the shepherds departed until, the grave being made and the papers burnt, the body of Chrysostom was interred, not without many tears from the spectators. They closed the sepulchre with a large fragment of a rock until a tombstone was finished, which Ambrosio said it was his intention to provide, and to inscribe upon it the following epitaph:—
chrysostom's epitaph.
The body of a wretched swain, Killed by a cruel maid's disdain, In this cold bed neglected lies.
He lived, fond, hapless youth! to prove Th' inhuman tyranny of love, Exerted in Marcela's eyes.
Then they strewed abundance of flowers and boughs on the grave, and after expressions of condolence to his friend Ambrosio, they took their leave of him.
All beauty does not inspire love; some please the sight without captivating the affections. If all beauties were to enamour and captivate, the hearts of mankind would be in a continual state of perplexity and confusion—for beautiful objects being infinite, the sentiments they inspire should also be infinite.