Philip Ayres - Petrarch Laments for the d**h of M. Laura lyrics

This Nightingale that does so much complain Robb'd of her tender young, or dearest mate, And to the fields and heav'ns her tale relate, In such sad notes, but yet harmonious strain; Perhaps this station kindly does retain, To join her griefs with my unhappy state; 'Twas my a**urance did my woe create: I thought d**h could not have a Goddess slain. How soon deceiv'd are those, who least mistrust! I ne'er could think that face should turn to dust, Which, than all human beauties seem'd more pure: But now I find that my malicious fate, Will, to my sorrow, have me learn too late: Nothing that pleases here, can long endure.