But she whose breath embalm’d thy wholesome air
Is gone; nor gold, nor gems, can her restore.
Neglected virtues, seasons go and come,
When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.
What doth it serve to see the sun’s bright face,
And skies enamell’d with the Indian gold?
Or the moon in a fierce chariot roll’d,
And all the glory of that starry place?
What doth it serve earth’s beauty to behold,
The mountain’s pride, the meadow’s flow’ry grace,