Ah wretched Maid! now give a Loose to Grief.
Nor Art, nor Invocation use;
Thy fatal Loss admits of no Relief,
And does all fruitless Aid refuse.
She, whom thou late esteem'd'st so dear,
By Syrius now is Slain:
For long in his celestial Sphere,
The spiteful Star had envied her,
And shed his Rays in vain:
'Till mad with Shame, and Rage to find
His Lustre by her Eyes out-shin'd,
He shot a baleful Influence,
And snatch'd his beauteous Rival hence.
Begin, oh Muse! this mournful Scene disclose,
In Notes as sad, and boundless as my Woes.