Your dear lov’d forms, and o’er them flings
Bright robes of heavenly radiance fair,
Anon they vanish into air:
Thus fled my joys, I cry, and tears pursue,
The pleasing phantoms melting from my view.
Have I not cause, my friend, to grieve,
To bid the mournful numbers flow,
In solemn strains of dirge like woe,
And tears the wounded heart relieve:
But resignation, heaven born maid,