A Song.

A SONG.

Curse on this Virtue Constancy, Of which we're vainly Proud; It like a Crime doth Torture me, Since all my softer thoughts of Bliss, And ev'ry kind and tender Wish, Is on a careless thankless Swain bestow'd.

I with more ease could bear my Fate, Forgive his Cruelty, If stupidly our Sex he hate: But he doth Smile on every Fair, The partial Curse I cannot bear, For, oh he's kind! he's kind! to all but me.