On Mrs. Arabella Fermor Leaving London

From town fair Arabella flies; The beaux unpowder'd grieve: The rivers play before her eyes; The breezes, softly breathing, rise; The Spring begins to live.

Her lovers swore, they must expire, Yet quickly find their ease; For, as she goes, their flames retire; Love thrives before a nearer fire, Esteem by distant rays.

Yet soon the fair one will return, When Summer quits the plain: Ye rivers, pour the weeping urn; Ye breezes, sadly sighing, mourn; Ye lovers, burn again!

'Tis constancy enough in love That nature's fairly shown: To search for more, will fruitless prove; Romances, and the turtle-dove, The virtue boast alone.