'Ye cruel chymists, what with-held your aid!
'Could no pomatums save a trembling maid?
'How false and trifling is that art ye boast!
'No art can give me back my beauty lost.
'In tears, surrounded by my friends I lay,
'Mask'd o'er, and trembled at the sight of day;
'MIRMILLIO came my fortune to deplore,
'(A golden-headed cane well carv'd he bore)
'Cordials, he cry'd, my spirits must restore!
'Beauty is fled, and spirit is no more!