so shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear:
bute, all ye offspring of folly so true,
and flowers let us cull for maria's cold bier.
we'll search through the garden for each silly flower,
we'll roam thro' the forest for each idle weed;
but chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower,
for none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed.
we'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay;
here vanity strums on her idiot lyre;
there keen indignation shall dart on his prey,
which spurning contempt shall redeem from his ire.