Song LVI., pp.307-308.

[Tea-Table Miscellany Contents]

YE beaux of pleasure, 

Whose wit at leisure, 

Can count love’s treasure, 

Its joy and smart; 

At my desire, 

With me retire, 

To know what fire 

Consumes my heart. 


Three moons that hasted, 

Are hardly wasted, 

Since I was blafted 

With beauty’s ray: 

Aurora shews ye 

No face so rosie, 

No July posie 

So fresh and gay. 


Her skin by nature, 

No Ermin better, 

Tho’ that fine creature 

Is white as snow; 

With blooming graces 

Adorn’d her face is, 

Her flowing traces 

As black as sloe. 


She’s tall and slender, 

She’s soft and tender; 

Some god commend her; 

My wit’s too low: 

‘Twere joyful plunder, 

To bring her under, 

She’s all a wonder 

From top to toe. 


Then cease, ye sages, 

To quote dull pages, 

That in all ages 

Our minds are free: 

Tho’ great your skill is, 

So strong the will is, 

My love for Phillis

Must ever be. 

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