Phillis. Ah, Corydon! survey the 'Change around,
Through all the 'Change no wretch like me is found:
| Alas! the day, when I, poor heedless maid, | |
| Was to your rooms in Lincoln's Inn betray'd; | |
| Then how you swore, how many vows you made! |
Ye listening Zephyrs, that overheard his love,
Waft the soft accents to the gods above.
Alas! the day; for (O, eternal shame!)
I sold you handkerchiefs, and lost my fame.
Cor. When I forget the favour you bestow'd,
Red herrings shall be spawn'd in Tyburn Road;
Fleet street transform'd become a flowery green,
And mass be sung where operas are seen.
The wealthy cit, and the St. James's beau,
Shall change their quarters, and their joys forego;
Stockjobbing, this, to Jonathan's shall come,
At the Groom Porter's, that, play off his plum.
| Phil. But what to me does all that love avail, | |
| If, while I doze at home o'er porter's ale, | |
| Each night with wine and wenches you regale? |
My livelong hours in anxious cares are past,
And raging hunger lays my beauty waste.
On templars spruce in vain I glances throw,
And with shrill voice invite them as they go.
Expos'd in vain my glossy ribands shine,
And unregarded wave upon the twine.
The week flies round; and when my profit's known,
I hardly clear enough to change a crown.
Cor. Hard fate of virtue, thus to be distrest,
Thou fairest of thy trade, and far the best!
As fruitmen's stalls the summer-market grace,
And ruddy peaches them; as first in place
