FLORIANA.  
A PASTORAL, Upon the Death of Her Grace THE Duchess of Southampton.  Damon. 
TEll me, my Thyrsis, tell thy Damon why  
Does my loved Swain in this sad posture lie?  
What mean these streams still falling from thine eyes,  
Fast as those sighs from thy swollen bosom rise?  
Has the fierce Wolf bro●● through the fenced Ground?  
Have thy Lambs strayed? or has Dorinda frowned?  Thyrsis. 
The Wolf? Ah! let him come, for now he may;  
Have my Lambs strayed? let 'em for ever stray:  
Dorinda frowned? No, She is ever mild;  
Nay, I remember but just now She smiled:  
Alas! She smiled; for to the Lovely Maid  
None had the fatal Tidings yet conveyed:  
Tell me then Shepherd, tell me canst thou find  
As long as thou art true, and She is kind,  
A Grief so great, as may prevail above  
Even Damon's Friendship, or Dorinda's Love?  Damon. 
Sure there is none.  Thyrs. 
But, Damon, there may be:  
What if the charming Floriana die?  Damon. 
Far be the Omen!  Thyrs. 
Alas! But suppose it true.  Damon. 
Then should I grieve my Thyrsis, more than you.  
She is—  Thyrs. 
She was, but is no more;  
Now, Damon, now, let thy swollen eyes run o'er:  
Here to this Turf by thy sad Thyrsts grow,  
And when my streams of Grief too shallow flow,  
Let in thy Tide to raise the Torrent high,  
Till both a Deluge make, and in it die.  Damon. 
Then that to this wished height the Flood might swell,  
Friend, I will tell thee.  Thyrs. 
Friend, I thee will tell,  
How young, how good, how beautiful She fell.  
Oh! She was all for which fond Mothers pray,  
Blessing their Babes when first they see the Day.  
Beauty and She were one; for in her face  
Sat Sweetness tempered with Majestic Grace;  
Such powerful Charms as might the proudest awe,  
Yet such attractive goodness as might draw  
The Humblest, and to both give equal Law.  
How was She wondered at by every Swain?  
The Pride, the Light, the Goddess of the Plain:  
On all She shined, and spreading glories cast,  
Diffusive of herself, where e'er She passed,  
There breathed an Air sweet as the winds that blow  
From the blessed Shores where fragrant Spices grow:  
Even me sometimes She with a Smile would grace,  
Like the Sun shining on the vilest place.  
Nor did Dorinda bar me the Delight  
Of feasting on her eyes my longing Sight:  
But to a Being so sublime, so pure,  
Spared my devotion, of my Love secure.  Damon. 
Her Beauty such: but Nature did design  
That only as an answerable Shrine  
To the Divinity that's lodged within.  
Her Soul shined through, and made her form so bright,  
As Clouds are gilded by the Sun's piercing Light.  
In her smooth forehead we might read expressed  
The even Calmness of her gentle Breast:  
And in her sparkling Eyes as clear was writ  
The active vigour of her youthful Wit.  
Each Beauty of the Body or the Face  
Was but the Shadow of some inward Grace.  
Gay, sprightly, cheerful, free and unconfined  
As Innocence could make it, was her Mind;  
Yet prudent, though not tedious nor severe,  
Like those, who being dull, would grave appear:  
Who out of guilt do Cheerfulness despise,  
And being sullen, hope men think 'em wise.  
How would the listening Shepherds round her throng;  
To catch the words fell from her charming Tongue!  
She all with her own Spirit and Soul inspired,  
Her they all loved, and her they all admired.  
Even mighty Pan, whose powerful Hand sustains  
The Sovereign Crook that mildly awes the Plains,  
Of's tenderest Cares made her the chiefest part;  
And great Lovisa lodged her in her Heart.  Thyrsis. 
Who would not now a solemn Mourning keep,  
When Pan himself and fair Lovisa weep?  
When those blessed Eyes by the kind gods designed  
To cherish Nature, and delight Mankind,  
All drowned in Tears, melt into gentler Showers  
Than April drops upon the Infant Flowers;  
Such Tears as Venus for Adonis shed,  
When at her feet the Lovely Youth lay dead;  
About her, all her little weeping Loves  
Ungirt her Cestos and unyoakt her Doves.  Damon. 
Come pious Nymphs, with fair Lovisa come,  
And visit gentle Floriana's Tomb;  
And as you walk the Melancholy Round,  
Where no unhallowed feet profane the ground,  
With your chaste hands fresh flowers and odours shed  
About her last obscure and silent Bed;  
Still praying as you gently move your feet,  
Soft be her Pillow, and her Slumbers sweet.  Thyrsis. 
See where they come, a mournful lovely Train,  
As ever wept on fair Arcadia's Plain:  
Lovisa mournful far above the rest,  
In all the Charms of beauteous Sorrow dressed:  
Just are her Tears, when She reflects how soon  
A Beauty, second only to her own,  
Flourished, looked gay, was withered, and is gone!  Damon. 
O She is gone! gone like a newborn flower,  
That decked some Virgin-Queens delicious Bower;  
Torn from the Stalk by some untimely blast,  
And amongst the vilest weeds and rubbish cast:  
But flowers return, and coming Spring disclose,  
The Lily white, and more fresh the Rose;  
But no kind Season back her Charms can bring,  
And Floriana has no second Spring.  Thyrsis. 
O She is set! set like the falling Sun;  
Darkness is round us, and glad Day is gone!  
Alas! the Sun that's set, again will rise,  
And gild with richer Beams the Morning-Skies:  
But Beauty, though as bright as they it shines,  
When its short glory to the West declines,  
O there's no hope of the returning Light;  
But all is long Oblivion, and eternal Night.  
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed for Samuel Cook, 1681.