C. Muston

Why mourns my friend?
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Muston is known only to God.
Lyrics: William Shenstone

Why mourns my friend, why weeps his downcast eye,
That eye where mirth, where fancy us'd to shine?
Thy cheerful meads reprove that swelling sigh,
Spring ne'er enamell'd fairer meads than thine.

Art thou not lodged in fortune's warm embrace?
Wert thou not form'd by nature's partial care?
Blest in thy song, and blest in every grace
That wins the friend, or that enchants the fair.

Damon, said he, thy partial praise restrain;
Nor Damon's friendship can my peace restore;
Alas, his very praise awakes my pain,
And my poor wounded bosom bleeds the more.

For oh, that nature on my birth had frown'd,
Or fortune fix'd me to some lowly cell!
Then had my bosom 'scaped this fatal wound,
Nor had I bid these vernal sweets farewell.

But led by fortune's hand, her darling child,
My youth her vain licentious bliss admired;
In fortune's train the siren flattery smiled,
And rashly hallow'd all her queen inspired.

Of folly studious, even of vices vain,
Ah vices, gilded by the rich and gay!
I chased the guileless daughters of the plain,
Nor dropp'd the chase till Jessy was my prey.