In this sick Season, at the close of Day,
On  Lap pale  lay;
Whose sallow Cheeks had lost their rosy Dye,
The Sparkles languish'd in her closing Eye.
Parch'd were those Lips whence Musick us'd to flow,
Nor more the Flute her weary Fingers know,
Yet thrice to raise her feeble Voice she try'd,
Thrice on her Tongue the fainting Numbers dy'd;
At last reviv'd, on  Neck she hung,
And like the Swan expiring thus she sung.