She cries, a private Room's for them most fit,
For Reputation is the Glory of a Cit;
This only is the Place, where in a Trice,
Some Angel steals the Wounds of friendly Vice;
The Nymph finds a Relief for all her Pains,
And the lost Maidenhead's restor'd again.
But who is he in Bower close confin'd,
With a kind Fair t' unbend his troubled Mind,
Sure by his Air, his Beauty, and his Grace,
It Phoebus is, or some of heavenly Race.