A Song.

A SONG.

I.

FOrc'd by a Cruel lawless Fate, I lov'd a Nymph with Passion, But found alas, I came too late To sway her Inclination; Her Heart was given a Coxcomb's Fee, Whose face had introduc'd him, Though not one grain of Sense had he, To know how well she us'd him.

II.

I try'd if worth could make her kind, And hourly made advances; But who can e'er the Charm unbind, In Womens stubborn Fancies: I calmly did her foible shew, Where e'er he came, abus'd him: I call'd him Fool, I prov'd him so, Yet she the better us'd him.

III.

I hate, she cry'd, your God of Wit, Our Sex should all oppose him; 'Tis he that Charms my Appetite, Shall sleep upon my Bosom: This senseless stuff my love withdrew, And cur'd my Melancholly; I kick'd her brute, then bid adieu To every Female folly.