All mortal pleasures in a moment fade : 

 Our surest hope is in an hour destroyM, 

 And love, best gift of heaven, not long enjoy'd. 



Methinks I see her, frantic with despair, 



Her streaming eyes, wrung hands, and flowing 



hair ; 

 Her Mechlen pinners rent the floor bestrow, 

 And her torn fan gives real signs of woe. 

 Hence Superstition, that tormenting guest, 

 That haunts with fancied fears the coward breast ; 

 No dread events upon this fate attend, 

 Stream eyes no more, no more thy tresses rend. 

 Tho' certain omens oft forewarn a state, 

 And dying lions show the monarch's fate ; 

 Why should such fears bid Celia's sorrow rise, 

 For when a Lap-dog falls no lover dies. 



Cease, Celia, cease ; restrain thy flowing tears, 

 Some warmer passion will dispel thy cares. 

 In man you'll find a more substantial bliss, 

 More grateful toying and a sweeter kiss. 



He's dead. Oh lay him gently in the ground ! 

 And may his tomb be by this verse renowned : 



Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is 



laid ; 

 Who fawrfd like man, but ne'er like man 

 betray 'i. 



John Gay. 

 61 



