SONG by CHARLES COTTON

I

How comes it to pass with so little ado
That I've broke all my fetters and chains,
And that no remembrance of all my great woe
But like that of a tale now remains?
I no more for a star now do Phyllis esteem,
And all her perfections to me now do seem
But like dreams when I've malted my brains.

II

I am now quite asham'd to see how she looks,
And no more the same Fair that before,
Those beauties all gone put me so off the hooks,
And so troubled my coxcomb of yore;
I now see all the shot that she made was false fire,
And those murthering charms I so much did admire
Mere defects, mere defects, and no more.

III

The sun, or yet love, are no more in her eyes,
They're as dim as a nail's in a door,
She's so far with her charms from gaining a prize,
That I doubt she must now run o' th' score;
And for that we call Mistress so monst'rous unfit
To any man living that has grace or wit,
That she's scarce good enough for a whore.

IV

Yet, sot that I was, I did once cry and blubber
For this damnable piece of infection,
Which none could have done but an owl and a lubber,
But his sense would have been his protection;
And for which on myself I will now pass this sentence,
That to th' hour of my death I will weep for repentance
That I ever did weep for affection.

V

Farewell then, O Phyllis! it is the Gods' pleasure
That I reason might see to forsake you,
To open my eyes, then out of my love's treasure
Please t' accept of this farewell I make you;
'Tis a compliment that is most justly your due,
And but what in times past I took kindly from you,
Ugly Phyllis, a whoreson's pox take you.

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