It is confess'd, yet must our griefs dispute That which thine own conclusion doth refute, 10 Ere we begin. Hearken! for if thy ear Be to thy throat proportion'd, thou canst hear. Is there no order in the work of Fate? Nor rule, but blindly to anticipate Our growing seasons? or think'st thou 'tis just, To sprinkle our fresh blossoms with thy dust, Till by abortive funerals, thou bring That to an Autumn, Nature meant a Spring? Is't not enough for thee, that wither'd age Lies the unpitied subject of thy rage; 20 But like an ugly amorist, thy crest Must be with spoils of Youth and Beauty drest? In other camps, those which sat down to-day March first to-morrow, and they longest stay, Who last came to the service: but in thine, Only confusion stands for discipline. We fall in such promiscuous heaps, none can Put any diff'rence 'twixt thy rear or van; Since oft the youngest lead thy files. For this, The grieved world here thy accuser is, 30 And I a plaintiff, 'mongst those many ones, Who wet this Lady's urn with zealous moans; As if her ashes, quick'ning into years, Might be again embodied by our tears. But all in vain; the moisture we bestow Shall make as soon her curled marble grow, As render heat or motion to that blood, Which through her veins branch't like an azure flood; Whose now still current in the grave is lost, Lock'd up, and fetter'd by eternal frost. 40