Who dies in youth and vigour, dies the best.
But blind to former as to future fate, what mortal knows his pre-existent state?
Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.
Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside, A teeming mistress, but a barren bride.
Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue
How loved, how honored once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot A heap of dust alone remains of thee 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!