Vice-Gerent of the Queen of Love,
Who with persuasive Arts remove
Coy Maidens Scruples , and inspire
The hardest Hearts with soft Desire!
Thy Aid, Syrisca , I implore!
My once lov'd Phillis is no more:
Repair the Injury of Fate!
'Tis sad, to live without a Mate ,
The widow'd Bird still hangs its Wings,
No longer sports, no longer sings,
Till the new season brings along
Another Partner in his Song.
O, lure by thy inticing Charms
Some fair Companion to my Arms!
Give me no painted, gaudy Thing ,
New dress'd like Flora , in the Spring,
To haunt the Park 's licentious Grove,
Trick'd up for adventitious Love,
Noisy, and vain, affecting Wit;
A Nymph admiring Fools might hit,
Or eager Mariners adore,
Just landed hot from Africk 's Shore.
Nor let my Chance, Syrisca , be
Some oft-restor'd Virginity,
First bought at an excessive Rate
By some grave Pillar of the State .
Or fallen Matron in distress,
With awkward Fears, and forc'd Caress;
Reduc'd to what, poor wretched Dame!
Is acted ill in Want , and Shame:
For Love , effeminated Boy,
In Indolence, and Ease must toy,
From Poverty affrighted flys,
Or in the House of Sorrow dyes,
May she, who shares my softer Hours,
Be fresh, and sweet as vernal Flow'rs,
Still gayly smiling, and excell
In loving , or deceiving well!
Such as, Syrisca , we are told,
Thou to our Fathers wast of old.