Citation - Independent Gazeteer: 1783.08.02

IG.783.095
2 Aug 1783:41 (92)
ON THE DEATH OF A LADY.
Ye thoughts of bliss which fir'd my breast, 
Adieu! now Ethelinda's dead;
Not hope itself can make me blest, 
For hope with Ethelinda fled.
. . . [1  verse follows.]
Her hand once skill'd to tune the lyre, 
Could sooth the keenest pangs of woe;
Her voice could raise each soft desire, 
And make each breast with rapture glow.
. . . [11 more verses.]