Now uninspir’d upon your Banks we lye, Unless when we wou’d mourn his Elegie; His name’s a Genius that wou’d Wit dispense, And give the Theme a Soul, the Words a Sense. But all fine thought that Ravisht when it spoke, With the soft Youth eternal leave has took; Uncommon Wit that did the soul o’recome, Is buried all in _Strephon’s_ Worship’d Tomb; Satyr has lost its Art, its Sting is gone, The Fop and Cully now may be undone; That dear instructing Rage is now allay’d, And no sharp Pen dares tell ‘em how they’ve stray’d; Bold as a God was ev’ry lash he took, But kind and gentle the chastising stroke. Mourn, Mourn, ye Youths, whom Fortune has betray’d, The last Reproacher of your Vice is dead. Mourn, all ye Beauties, put your _Cyprus_ on, The truest Swain that e’re Ador’d you’s gone; Think how he lov’d, and writ, and sigh’d, and spoke, Recall his Meen, his Fashion, and his Look. By what dear Arts the Soul he did surprize, Soft as his Voice, and charming as his Eyes. Bring Garlands all of never-dying Flow’rs, Bedew’d with everlasting falling Show’rs; Fix your fair eyes upon your victim’d Slave, Sent Gay and Young to his untimely Grave. See where the Noble Swain Extended lies, Too sad a Triumph of your Victories; Adorn’d with all the Graces Heav’n e’re lent, } All that was Great, Soft, Lovely, Excellent } You’ve laid into his early Monument. } Mourn, Mourn, ye Beauties, your sad loss deplore, The Young, the Charming _Strephon_ is no more. Mourn, all ye little Gods of Love, whose Darts Have lost their wonted power of piercing hearts; Lay by the gilded Quiver and the Bow, The useless Toys can do no Mischief now, Those Eyes that all your Arrows points inspir’d, Those Lights that gave ye fire are now retir’d, Cold as his Tomb, pale as your Mothers Doves; Bewail him then oh all ye little Loves, For you the humblest Votary have lost That ever your Divinities could boast; Upon your hands your weeping Heads decline, And let your wings encompass round his Shrine; In stead of Flow’rs your broken Arrows strow, And at his feet lay the neglected Bow. Mourn, all ye little Gods, your loss deplore, The soft, the Charming _Strephon_ is no more.