Forget their beauty, and in discord lie,Drunk with the fountain from his melting eye.Nor Phoebus, nor the muses' queen, could giveTheir son, their own prerogative, to live.Orpheus, the heir of both his parents' skill,Tam'd wond'ring beasts, not death's more cruel will.Linus' sad strings on the dumb lute do lie. In silence forc'd to let their master die.His mother weeping does his eyelids close,And on his urn, tears, her last gift, bestows.His sister too, with hair dishevell'd, bearsPart of her mother's nature, and her tears.With those, two fair, two mournful rivals come,And add a greater triumph to his tomb: