That sympathiz’d with them when they were torn.
Not half so tough the hide of roasted pig,
Not more ambrosial was the damask rose;
Not half so comely was the parson’s wig,
As ye my Breeches—best of all my clothes!
’Till Time’s unpitying hand (by fate design’d),
Your stitches, strength, and youth, hath from you borne
So falls the flow’r before the ruthless wind,
So from its mate the guiltless turtle’s torn,
Here, while ye lie upon the teeming earth,