On Mrs. Ar: F: Leaving London

From Town fair Arabella flies, The Beaux unpowder'd grieve, The Rivers play before her eyes, The Breezes softly breathing rise The Spring begins to live. Her Lovers swore they must expire Yet quickly find their Ease, For as she goes, their Flames retire Love thrives before a nearer fire Esteem by distant Rays. Yet soon the Fair one will return When Summer quits the Plain Ye Rivers pour the weeping Urn, Ye Breezes sadly sighing mourn, Ye Lovers burn again. 'Tis constancy enough in Love That Nature's fairly shewn To search for more will fruitless prove Romances and the Turtle Dove The Virtue boast alone.