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Song.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Song.

[She comes, the Saint to whom I bow]

She comes, the Saint to whom I bow,
And either Sex alarms;
Where are your hearts, ye Heroes, now?
Ye Beauties, where your charms?
Undone Philander to adore
This all-subduing Fair!
Well mayst thou love; but hope no more,
Where thousands must despair.

40

In uncorrupted Nature's prime
Thy passion had been bless'd,
Ere humble vows became a crime,
And constancy a jest.
But now, by wealth secure to move,
Gay Damon strikes her eyes;
Philander runs the race of love,
But Damon wins the prize.
Ah! charming Beauty! heavenly Bloom!
How quickly are they lost!
How cheaply sold! the common doom
Of what we value most.
Gold for his toys and homely ware
The Merchant sees return'd;
Gold is the toy that buys the Fair,
While love and truth are scorn'd.