Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The King himself has follow’d her—
When she has walk’d before.
But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short-all:
The Doctors found, when she was dead—
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent Street well may say,
That had she lived a twelvemonth more,—
She had not died to-day.