Classic Poem

In what sad pomp the mournful charmer lies?
Does she lament the victim of her eyes?
Or would she hearts with soft compassion move,
To make them take the deeper stamp of love?
What youth so wife, so wary to escape,
When Rigour comes, drest up in Pity's shape?
Let not in vain those precious tears be shed,
Pity the dying, fair one, not the dead;
While you unjustly of the Fates complain,
I grieve as much for you, as much in vain.
Each to relentless judges make their moan;
Blame not death's cruelty, but cease your own.
While raging passion both our souls does wound,
A sov'reign balm might sure for both be found;
Would you but wipe your fruitless tears away,
And with a just compassion mine survey.