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If Memnon's fate bewail'd with constant dew,
Does, with the day, his mother's grief renew,
If her son's death mov'd tender Thetis' mind
To swell with tears the waves, with sighs the wind;
Sad Cupid now despairs of conqu'ring hearts,
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Throws by his empty quiver, breaks his darts:
Eases his useless bows from idle strings;
Nor flies, but humbly creeps with flagging wings.
He wants, of which he robb'd fond lovers, rest;
And wounds with furious hands his pensive breast.
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Those graceful curls which wantonly did flow,
The whiter rivals of the falling snow,
Forget their beauty, and in discord lie,
Drunk with the fountain from his melting eye.
Nor Phoebus, nor the muses' queen, could give
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Their son, their own prerogative, to live.
Orpheus, the heir of both his parents' skill,
Tam'd wond'ring beasts, not death's more cruel will.
Linus' sad strings on the dumb lute do lie.
In silence forc'd to let their master die.
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