Beauty and wit to give us joy may fail.
Wit cease to please, and beauty may decay,}
Riches make wings and swiftly fly away;}
Depriv’d of all, what will Philander say?}
But to secure thee of thy darling’s charms,
Go to the mines, and lodge within her arms;
Enfold thy mistress in a fond embrace,
For ever banish’d from the shepherd race.
Nor quit thy mansion till thou breathe thy last:
Such sordid souls no social joys should taste.