With the Widow their amorous Bowels do yearn, There are divers pretend to an equal Concern; And by her Perswasion their Hearts they reveal, In case if not guilty, to bring an Appeal: They all will unite, The young Blade to indite, And in Prosecution will joyn Day and Night; In the mean time full many a Tear and a Groan is, Wherever they meet, for their departed _Adonis_. With the Ladies foul Murther's a horrible Sin Of one Handsome without, tho' a Coxcomb within; For not being a Beau, the sad Fate of poor _Crab_, Tho' himself hang'd for Love, was a Jest to each Drab; Then may _Jering_ live long, And may _Risby_ among The Fair with _Jack Barkley_, and _Culpepper_ throng: May no Ruffin whose Heart as hard as a Stone is, Kill any of those for a Brother _Adonis_. No Lady henceforth can be safe with her Beau, They think if this Slaughter unpunish'd should go; Their Gallants, for whose Persons they most are in Pain, Must no sooner be envy'd, but strait must be Slain: For all _B----_ shape, None car'd for the Rape, Nor whether the Virtuous their Lust did escape; Their Trouble of Mind, and their anguish alone is, For the too sudden Fate of departed _Adonis_. Let not every vain Spark think that he can engage, The Heart of a Female, like one on the Stage; His Flute, and his Voice, and his Dancing are rare, And wherever they meet, they prevail with the Fair: But no quality Fop, Charms like Mr. _Hop_, Adorn'd on the Stage, and in _East-India_ Shop; So that each from _Miss Felton_, to ancient _Drake Joan_ is, Bemoaning the Death of the Player _Adonis_. Yet _Adonis_ in spight of this new Abjuration, Did banter the lawful King of this great Nation: Who call'd God's anointed a foolish old Prig, Was both a base and unmannerly _Whigg_: But since he is Dead No more shall be said, For he in Repentance has laid down his Head; So I wish each Lady, who in mournful Tone is, In Charity Grieve for the Death of _Adonis_. _A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ JAMES TOWNSHEND, _Organist of_ LYN RIGES. _The Words by_ J.R. [Music] Fly _Damon_ fly, 'tis Death to stay, Nor listen to the _Syren's_ Song; Nor hear her warbling Fingers play, That kills in Consort with her Tongue: Oft to despairing Shepherds Verse, Unmov'd she tunes the trembling Strings; Oft does some pitying Words rehearse, But little means the thing she Sings. Cease on her lovely Looks to gaze, Nor court your Ruin in her Eyes; Her Looks too 's dangerous as her Face, At once engages and Destroys: Speak not if you'd avoid your Fate, For then she darts Resentment home; But fly, fly _Damon_ e'er too late, Or else be Deaf, be Blind, be Dumb. MERCURY _to_ PARIS, _in the Prize Musick, Compos'd by Mr._ John Eccles. [Music]