1 Forbear, my friends, forbear, and ask no more,
Where all my cheerful airs are fled?
Why will you make me talk my torments o'er?
My life, my joy, my comfort's dead.

2 Deep from my soul, mark how the sobs arise,
Hear the long groans that waste my breath,
And read the mighty sorrow in my eyes,
Lovely Sophronia sleeps in death.

3 Unkind disease, to vail that rosy face
With tumors of a mortal pale,
While mortal purples with their dismal grace
And double horror spot the vail.

4 Uncomely vail, and most unkind disease!
Is this Sophronia, once the fair?
Are these the features that were born to please!
And beauty spread her ensigns there?

5 I was all love, and she was all delight,
Let me run back to seasons past;
Ah flow'ry days when first she charm'd my sight!
But roses will not always last.

6 Yet still Sophronia pleas'd, nor time, nor care,
Could take her youthful bloom away:
Virtue has charms which nothing can impair;
Beauty like hers could ne'er decay.

7 Grace is sacred plant of heav'nly birth;
The seed descending from above
Roots in a soil refin'd, grows high on earth,
And blooms with life, and joy, and love.

8 Such was Sophronia's foul celestial dew
And angels food were her repast;
Devotion was her work; and thence she drew
Delights which strangers never taste.

9 Not the gay splendors of a flattering court
Could tempt her to appear and shine:
Her solemn airs forbid the world's resort;
But I was blest and she was mine.

10 Safe on her welfare all mu pleasures hung,
Her smiles could all my pains control,
Her soul was made of softness, and her tongue
Was soft and gentle as her soul.

11 She was my guide, my friend, my earthly all;
Love grew with ev'ry waning moon;
Had heaven a length of years delay'd its call,
Still I had thought it call'd too soon.

12 But peace my sorrows! nor with murmuring voice,
Dare to accuse heavens high decree:
She was first ripe for everlasting joys;
Sophron, she waits above for thee.