On the death of dear Statyra. Sarah Fyge Egerton Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T125148 Egerton, Sarah Fyge, 1668-1723. Poems on Several Occasions, Together with a Pastoral. By Mrs. S. F. [poems only] London printed, and are to be sold by J. Nutt, near Stationers-Hall 1703 pp. 44-45. [20],117,[3],15,[1]p.; 8⁰.

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On the death of dear Statyra . Begone my Muse , Tears quench thy sacred Fire , True Grief , like Love , without thee can inspire . Mod'rate Sorrows may be told with Art , But the Distractions of my troubled Heart With sad Confusion I must needs express , My Verse will , like my Sighs , be numberless . Ah , cruel Death ! why was't thou so severe , To take the Young , the Witty , and the Fair , The gay Satyra in her blooming days : Could no less Feast serve thy luxurious Jaws ? Would not the old or discontented do ? Those whom Misfortune forc'd to wish for you . No those I by experience find you fly ; And 'tis not those we would , but those you please , must dy . Guide me , some Friend , if I have any one , Whom Grief has spar'd since dear Statyra's gone : Lead me , I say , to some sad Cyprise shade , Dark as the Grave of the once lovely Maid ; There let me ever mourn the Friend I've lost : Ye Gods , why was Statyra made a Ghost ? I can no more gaze on that charming Face , Hear that sweet Voice , nor have one dear Imbrace ; View that soft Air and Mien , and sport and play , As we was wont on Summer-banks each day . Ye pleasant Walks whom she so oft did grace , Who's Charms did dart a Glory round the place . Keep on your dismal Hue , let not the Spring Put on your fresh Attire , nor Summer bring . The less gay verdant Look ye Birds be still , Sound not one Note unless sad Philomel . Each lofty Tree hang down your stately Head , Bud forth no more now gay Statyra's dead ; But let your naked Boughs be ever join'd In murmuring Sorrows with the sighing Wind : No Blow , no Wind to move the yielding Bough , My louder Sighs will do that Office now . Keep back your force ye Springs that grace the Woods , My Tears alone will swell you into Floods : And all too little for the Friend I grieve , Now she is gone 'tis not worth while to live .