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To Mrs. Masters, occasion'd by her Resolution to write no more.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


97

To Mrs. Masters, occasion'd by her Resolution to write no more.

By Mr. J. W.
When seated on a blooming Spray,
Sweet Philomela deigns to sing:
The list'ning Flocks forget to stray,
And all the Groves with Transports ring.
But if, too cruel and unkind,
She drops the much expected Lay;
The Birds are hush'd, the Flocks repine,
And Streams in Murmurs roll away.
'Tis thus, from your own genial Light,
Our sympathetick Hearts you fire:

98

When you, fair Maid, no more shall write,
No more shall we be taught t' admire.
No more the various Flow'rs shall give
Fresh Glories to the smiling Year:
From you these Beauties only live,
With you those Glories disappear.
Far greater Ills, than these can dread,
Your fatal Silence would ensue:
Not only Groves and Meads would fade,
The Muse would hourly languish too.
Mourn'd not the God, whose baffled Care
His flying Daphne ceas'd to move,
Whose Arms, extended for the Fair,
Embrac'd a dry tho' laurell'd Grove?

99

Who then his Anguish could disclose,
If ev'n his own his Fav'rite Tree,
By rigid Fate be doom'd to lose
Its loveliest greenest Boughs in Thee?