Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903/The Losse
THE LOSSE
She sighd', but soon, itt mix'd with comon air,
Too fleet a witnesse, for her deep dispair;
She wept, but tears, no lasting greif can show,
For tears will fail, and ebb, as well as flow.
She wou'd her tongue, to the sad subject force,
But all great passions, are above discourse.
Thy heart alone, Ardelia, with itt trust,
There grave itt deep, alas! 'twill fall to dust,
Vrania is no more, to me no more,
All these combin'd, can n'er that losse deplore.