At eve she bows her head and doth decay.
So lies the maid who once with beauty blest,
And at whose feet youths supplicating lay,
While beauty reign’d she was by them carest:
But none pays tribute to her breathless clay.
Each silent tomb methinks lets fall a tear,
While ev’ry grave in plaintive accents say;
“In pride of youth like you we did appear,
“But you like us, must moulder and decay.”
“Ye sons of dissipation, new pursue