The Regret

Alas! and must the Sun decline,
Before it have inform'd my Eyes
Of all that's glorious, all that's fine,
Of all I sigh for, all I prize?
How joyful were those happy Days,
When Iris spread her charming Rays,
Did my unwearied Heart inspire
With never-ceasing awful Fire,
And e'ery Minute gave me new Desire!
But now, alas! all dead and pale,
Like Flow'rs that wither in the Shade:
Where no kind Sun-beams can prevail,
To raise its cold and fading Head,
I sink into my useless Bed.
I grasp the senseless Pillow as I lie;
A thousand times, in vain, I sighing cry,
Ah! wou'd to Heaven my Iris were as nigh.