O HAPPY Tithon! if thou know'st thy hap,   And valuest thy wealth, as I my want,   Then need'st thou not—which ah! I grieve to grant— Repine at Jove, lull'd in his leman's lap:   That golden shower in which he did repose—       One dewy drop it stains       Which thy Aurora rains       Upon the rural plains,   When from thy bed she passionately goes.

Then, waken'd with the music of the merles,   She not remembers Memnon when she mourns:   That faithful flame which in her bosom burns From crystal conduits throws those liquid pearls:   Sad from thy sight so soon to be removed,       She so her grief delates.       —O favour'd by the fates       Above the happiest states,   Who art of one so worthy well-beloved!