The Nymph Complaining for the Death of her Fawn by Andrew Marvell. Part 1 of 7. The wanton troopers riding by Have shot my fawn, and it will die. Ungentle men! they cannot thrive To kill thee. Thou ne’er didst alive Them any harm, alas, nor could Thy death yet do them any good. I’m sure I never wish’d them ill, Nor do I for all this, nor will; But if my simple pray’rs may yet Prevail with Heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears Rather than fail. But oh, my fears! It cannot die so. Heaven’s King Keeps register of everything, And nothing may we use in vain. Ev’n beasts must be with justice slain, Else men are made their deodands; Though they should wash their guilty hands In this warm life-blood, which doth part From thine, and wound me to the heart,