Song. Montross

Ask not, why sorrow shades my brow;
Nor why my sprightly looks decay?
Alas! what need I Beauty now,
Since he, that lov'd it, dy'd to day.

Can ye have Ears, and yet not know,
Mirtillo, brave Mirtillo's slain?
Can ye have Eyes, and they not flow,
Or Hearts, that do not share my pain?

He's gone! he's gone! and I will go;
For in my Breast, such Wars I have,
And thoughts of him perplex me so
That the whole World appears my grave.

But I'le go to him, though he lie
Wrapt in the cold, cold Arms of Death:
And under yon sad Cypress-tree,
I'le mourn, I'le mourn away my Breath.