Classic Poem

Few Swains do like young Strephon mourn,
Whom now in Black I see,
But what's his Love compair'd to him,
That died for wretched me.

Tho' Strephon Mourns, she knows it not,
Her Eyes by Death are shut,
Yet still he Mourns the Maid he lov'd,
He can't, he won't forget.

With Joy and Transport let me view
My Saviour ris'n again;
He never liv'd, he never died,
For any one in vain.