Thyrsis, that much-lov'd Youth, the Goddess mourn'd, Thyrsis, who once Silurian Plains adorn'd; The rural Pow'rs confess'd their meaner Lays, When Thyrsis sung, and own'd his juster Praise; He Ariconian Swains industrious taught To strain rich Must, and press the racy Draught; Since he is gone, the Trees are all decay'd, With Moss bedight, and Blossoms ill-array'd. The pensive Owner mourns the tedious Weeks, And wants the gen'rous Bowl, that paints the flushing Cheeks.
