 | Poems (1717) |  |
ON THE DEATH OF A LADY's DOG.
Thou, happy Creature, art secureFrom all the Torments we endure:
Despair, Ambition, Jealousie,
Lost Friends, nor Love, disquiet thee;
A sullen Prudence drew thee hence
From Noise, Fraud, and Impertinence,
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Gilding it self with Laura's Smile.
How didst thou scorn Life's meaner Charms,
Thou who cou'dst break from Laura's Arms!
Poor Cynick! still methinks I hear
Thy awful Murmurs in my Ear;
As when on Laura's Lap you lay,
Chiding the worthless Crowd away.
How fondly Human Passions turn!
What we then Envy'd, now we Mourn!
| Poems (1717) | |