Mourn all ye Loves the fair Adonis dyes,
The lovely youth in deaths embraces lyes;
Rise wretched Venus, and to mourning turn,
The Tyrian Robes thy beauteous Limbs adorn;
Thy panting bosom beat in wild despair,
And pierce with these complaints the yielding air.
Mourn all ye loves, the fair Adonis dyes,
The lovely youth in deaths embraces lyes.
Ah! how his breast seems lovely to the sight,
The Tusk that wounded Him is not so white.
The sparkling lustre now forsakes his eyes,
And from his lips the rich carnation flyes;
The charming youth lyes breathless on the plain
And Cytherea's kisses are in vain.
Mourn all ye loves, the fair Adonis dyes,
The lovely youth in deaths embraces lyes.
Tho' wide the wound upon his thigh appears,
The Tender Goddess Breast a larger bears
Close by his side is faithful Dogs attend,
And howling 're the Corps the Skies they rend;
The Mountain Nymphs their sad detraction shew,
But Venus griefs no limits will allow;
Bare-footed to the Desart she repairs,
With looks disorder'd, and neglected air,
And her soft flesh the cruel brambles tear.
Mourn all ye loves, the fair Adonis dies,
The lovely youth in deaths embraces lyes.
The rocks and Floods lament his hapless fate;
Adonis, still Adonis they repeat,
The Flow'rs an universal sorrow shew,
And weep his fall in pearly drops of dew.
But Venus o're the partless mountain flyes,
And Hills and valleys eccho to her cryes.
Mourn all ye loves, the fair Adonis dyes,
The lovely youth in deaths embraces lyes.
Who can the Cyprian Queens sad story know,
Without lamenting her disastrous woe;
With arms out stretcht she grasps the fleeting air
And crys Adonis stay! stay lovely fair!
At length I've found thee, fly not my embrace;
My glowing kisses shall warm thy bloodless face
With eager Lips I'll draw thy parting breath,
Receive thy Soul, and such thy love in death.
This farewell kiss I never will resign,
And tho' you leave me, that shall still be mine.
Far off you fly, Adonis, and must go
To visit the remorseless king below.
But, as a Goddess, far more wretched I,
Immortally am curs'd and cannot dye.
Mourn all ye Loves, the fair Adonis dyes,
The lovely youth in deaths embraces lyes.
The Queen of Love assumes a widow'd state,
And round her little Loves unactive wait:
She blames the too rash youth, alone to dare
Encounter Savage Beasts, himself so fair.
Mourn all ye Loves, the fair Venus Eyes supply,
As drops of blood fell from Adonis thigh;
From which successively were seen to rise
From blood the Rose, from tears Anemonies.
Mourn all ye Loves, the fair Adnois dyes,
The lovely youth in deaths embraces lyes.
Fair Cytharea, from the Woods retire,
No longer there lament your lost desire,
The Nuptial Bed for your cold Love prepare,
Who looks (as sleeping) charming still, and fair.
On golden bolsters raise his heavy head,
So let him lye, tho' pale his looks and dead;
In his rich garments lay him gently down,
The same that us'd thy happy nights to crown.
Let Flow'rs and Garlands o're the Corps be spread;
But they, since he's no more, will quickly fade.
With fragrant essences perfume the air,
Since he is gone, who was all sweet and fair.
Now deckt in Purple soft Adonis lyes,
The Little Loves attend with weeping eyes,
And strive by diff'rent ways their grief to shew,
This tramples on his Dart, that breaks his bow.
A third 'th'air his useless Quiver throws,
A fourth the Embroider'd Slipper wou'd unloose,
In Golden Cups another Water bears,
One washes off the blood, his thigh besmears;
Another beats officiously the air,
And with soft pinions fans the breathless air
All Hymen's Torches on the threshold lye,
Extinguisht, and the Marriage Garland by:
Hymen's no longer sung but all around
Adonis is become the mournful sound.
The pitying Graces in the Concert move
And mourn th'unhappy Cytharea's love;
Her boundless grief the fatal Sisters share,
Endeavour to recall the beautous fair;
But cruel Proserpine is deaf to pray'r.
Perhaps was written a few months before An Epistle from Alexander to Ephestion in his Sicknesse, which it resembles and is one of the four openly attributed to "the Author of the Spleen" in 1701 Gilden; perhaps it was seen by Charles and Anne as a sort of classical companion to her Christian pastoral (also one of the four openly attributed to Anne in the volume), A Pastoral. Between Menalcus and Damon. One can also link it in this period to the wretched The Poor man's Lamb or Nathan's Parable to David.