My Poll, my present from the east, is dead.Best things are sooner snatch'd by cov'tous fate,To worse she freely gives a longer date;Thersites brave Achilles' fate surviv'd,And Hector fell, whilst all his brothers liv'd.Why should I tell what vows Corinna made?How oft she begg'd thy life, how oft she pray'd ?The seventh day came, and now the Fates beginTo end the thread, they had no more to spin;Yet still he talk'd, and when death nearer drew,His last breath said, "Corinna, now adieu!"There is a shady cypress grove below,And thither (if such doubtful things we know)The ghosts of pious birds departed go;'Tis water'd well, and verdant all the year,And birds obscene do never enter there;There harmless swans securely take their rest,And there the single Phoenix builds her nest;Proud peacocks there display their gaudy train,And billing turtles coo o'er all the plain: