"Ah, why thus abandon'd to mourning and woe,
" Why thus, lonely Philomel, slows thy sad strain?
"For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
" And thy bosom no trace of dejection retain;
"Yet if pity inspire thee, ah, cease not thy lay,
" Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn,
"O soothe him whose pleasures like thine pass away,
" Full swiftly they pass, but they never return.