Song

Strephon hath Fashion, Wit and Youth,
With all things else that please;
He nothing wants but Love and Truth
To ruin me with ease:
But he is flint, and bears the Art
To kindle fierce desire;
His pow'r inflames another's heart,
Yet, he ne'er feels the fire,

O! how it does my Soul perplex,
When I his charms recall,
To think he shou'd despise our Sex;
Or, what's worse, love 'em all!
My wearied Heart, like Noah's Dove,
In vain has sought for rest;
Finding no hope to fix my Love,
Returns to my breast.

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