Next remember the writer, whose delicate lay,
Deserv'd from Apollo, a chaplet of Bay;
Who in Hagley's sweet groves, for his Lucy did mourn,
And wept with true sorrow long over his urn.
There is none but poor Shaw, with his numbers can vie,
Who so sweetly laments that his Emma should die.
Then last name the Poet, whose anguish and grief,
Seeks in sorrowful verses some little relief,
Who o'er his Narcissa, so young, and so fair,
Laments in a language, uncommon, and rare.