Slender's Ghost. Vide Shakespeare

BENEATH a churchyard yew,
Decay'd and worn with age,
At dusk of eve methought I spy'd
Poor Slender's Ghost, that whimp'ring cry'd,
" O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!"

Ye gentle Bards! give ear,
Who talk of am'rous rage,
Who spoil the lily, rob the rose,
Come learn of me to weep your woes:
" O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!"

Why should such labour'd strains
Your formal Muse engage?
I never dream'd of flame or dart,
That fir'd my breast or pierc'd my heart,
But sigh'd, "O sweet Anne Page!"

And you! whose love-sick minds
No med'cine can assuage,
Accuse the leech's art no more,
But learn of Slender to deplore;
" O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!"

And ye! whose souls are held
Like linnets in a cage,
Who talk of fetters, links, and chains,
Attend, and imitate my strains;
" O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!"

And you! who boast or grieve
What horrid wars ye wage,
Of wounds receiv'd from many an eye,
Yet mean as I do, when I sigh
" O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!"

Hence ev'ry fond conceit
Of shepherd or of sage;
'Tis Slender's voice, 'tis Slender's way,
Expresses all you have to say,
" O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!"