Chapter I

What doleful crys are these that fright my sence,
Sad as the Groans of dying Innocence?
The killing Accents now more near Aproach,
And the Infectious Sound,
Spreads and Inlarges all around;
And does all Hearts with Grief and Wonder touch.
The famous _Grinhil_ dead! even he,
That cou’d to us give Immortalitie;
Is to the Eternal silent Groves withdrawn,
Those sullen Groves of Everlasting Dawn;
Youthful as Flowers, scarce blown, whose opening Leaves,
A wond’rous and a fragrant Prospect gives,
Of what it’s Elder Beauties wou’d display,
When they should flourish up to ripning _May_.
Witty as _Poets_, warm’d with Love and Wine,
Yet still spar’d Heaven and his Friend,
For both to him were Sacred and Divine:
Nor could he this no more then that offend.
Fixt as a _Martyr_ where he friendship paid,
And Generous as a God,
Distributing his Bounties all abroad;
And soft and gentle as a Love-sick Maid.