Classic Poem

Ah poor Adonis all my Cupids be
Thy Mourners, all my joyes are dead with thee.
Had but thy councel o're thy will prevail'd,
Nor thee thy life, nor me thy love had fail'd.
The Rose forsakes thy lip, the sweets are fled
Breath'd in thy kisses, yet I'le kisse thee dead:
Kisse and rekisse thee, but thou neither art,
Of kisses sensible, nor of my smart.
Ah poor Adonis, all my Cupids be
Thy mourners, all my joyes are dead with thee.
The Woods in sighs, Rivers in tears lament,
Echo in groanes her griefs and mine doth vent.
In purple every drooping flower is drest,
And mourning garments every field invest.
Ah poor Adonis, all my Cupids be
Thy Mourners, all my joyes are dead with thee.
You his lov'd Hounds obsequious to his call,
Couch'd at his feet, lament your Masters fall;
Take your eternal leave; Then, swift as Fame
Fly to the Woods, and there his death proclaim.
Ah poor Adonis, all my Cupids be
Thy Mourners, all my joyes are dead with thee.
You milk-white Doves, which to Joves starry Court ,
Through fleeting clouds my Chariot did transport,
Go mount the Heavens, and to the Gods make known,
That all my joyes like faithlesse dreams are flown.
Ah poor Adonis, all my Cupids be
Thy Mourners, all my joyes are dead with thee.
You silver Swans now from your harnesse free,
Fly 'bout the painted mead at liberty;
And to the flowers recount , Venus hath shed
As many tears as drops Adonis bled .
Ah poor Adonis, all my Cupids be
Thy Mourners, all my joyes are dead with thee.
And you my sister Graces go and tell
To savage Rocks, where Beasts more savage dwell;
Cold in her lap Cytheras Lover lyes ,
And Death (like slumber) dwels upon his eyes.
Ah poor Adonis, all my Cupids be
Thy Mourners, all my joyes are dead with thee.
My sons, on his pale corps your tresses strew,
Let each his Torch extinguish'd, Quiver, Bow,
And broken Arrows bring, then, with sad cries
Surrounding me, perform his Obsequies.
His eyes, one with his rosy fingers close,
The other, on his arm his head repose:
This fan the winde upon him with his wing,
To bath him, that fetch water from the spring.
Ah poor Adonis, all my Cupids be
Thy Mourners, all my joyes are dead with thee.
Dear Love, e're thou descend into the deep,
Shake from thy eyes, a while, this mortal sleep;
Look up a little; hear me but relate,
The dismal story of my haplesse fate:
Then in a kisse breath out thy soul in mine,
Whilst I my trembling lips impose on thine;
And drink Loves latest draught, which through each part,
Like divine Nectar, gliding to my heart,
Shall there for ever dwell in stead of thee
Who Minion now to Proserpine must be .
This said, her bodie gently she inclines,
And weeping to his lips her lips she joyns;
To catch the Reliques of his soul not flown,
And kindly gives them burial in her own.