Tears, sometimes, aid the conquest of an eye. 540 With what address the soft Ephesians draw Their sable network o'er entangled hearts! As seen through crystal, how their roses glow, While liquid pearl runs trickling down their cheek! Of hers not prouder Egypt's wanton queen, Carousing gems, herself dissolved in love. Some weep at death, abstracted from the dead, And celebrate, like Charles,[22] their own decease. By kind construction some are deem'd to weep, Because a decent veil conceals their joy. 550 Some weep in earnest, and yet weep in vain; As deep in indiscretion, as in woe. Passion, blind Passion! impotently pours Tears, that deserve more tears; while Reason sleeps; Or gazes like an idiot, unconcern'd; Nor comprehends the meaning of the storm; Knows not it speaks to her, and her alone. Irrationals all sorrow are beneath, That noble gift! that privilege of man! From sorrow's pang, the birth of endless joy. 560 But these are barren of that birth divine: They weep impetuous, as the summer storm, And full as short! The cruel grief soon tamed, They make a pastime of the stingless tale; Far as the deep resounding knell, they spread The dreadful news, and hardly feel it more. No grain of wisdom pays them for their woe. Half-round the globe, the tears pump'd up by Death Are spent in watering vanities of life; In making folly flourish still more fair, 570 When the sick soul, her wonted stay withdrawn, Reclines on earth, and sorrows in the dust; Instead of learning, there, her true support, Though there thrown down her true support to learn. Without Heaven's aid, impatient to be bless'd, She crawls to the next shrub, or bramble vile, Though from the stately cedar's arms she fell; With stale, forsworn embraces, clings anew, The stranger weds, and blossoms, as before, In all the fruitless fopperies of life: 580 Presents her weed, well-fancied, at the ball, And raffles for the Death's-head on the ring. So wept Aurelia, till the destined youth Stepp'd in, with his receipt for making smiles, And blanching sables into bridal bloom. So wept Lorenzo fair Clarissa's fate; Who gave that angel boy, on whom he doats; And died to give him, orphan'd in his birth! Not such, Narcissa, my distress for thee. I'll make an altar of thy sacred tomb, 590 To sacrifice to wisdom.--What wast thou? "Young, gay, and fortunate!" Each yields a theme. I'll dwell on each, to shun thought more severe; (Heaven knows I labour with severer still!) 594 I'll dwell on each, and quite exhaust thy death. A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs. And, first, thy youth. What says it to grey hairs? Narcissa, I'm become thy pupil now--