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T
he
ladies of St. James’s
Go swinging to the play;
Their footmen run before them,
With a “Stand by! Clear the way!”
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She takes her buckled shoon,
When we go out a-courting
Beneath the harvest moon.
The ladies of St. James’s
Wear satin on their backs;
They sit all night at Ombre,
With candles all of wax:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She dons her russet gown,
And runs to gather May dew
Before the world is down.
The ladies of St. James’s
They are so fine and fair,
You ’d think a box of essences
Was broken in the air:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
The breath of heath and furze,
When breezes blow at morning,
Is scarce so fresh as hers.
The ladies of St. James’s
They ’re painted to the eyes;
Their white it stays forever,
Their red it never dies:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her color comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily,
It wavers to a rose.
The ladies of St. James’s,
With “Mercy!” and with “Lud!”
They season all their speeches
(They come of noble blood):
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her shy and simple words
Are sweet as, after rain-drops,
The music of the birds.
The ladies of St. James’s,
They have their fits and freaks;
They smile on you—for seconds,
They frown on you—for weeks:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Come either storm or shine,
From Shrovetide unto Shrovetide
Is always true—and mine.
My Phyllida, my Phyllida!
I care not though they heap
The hearts of all St. James’s,
And give me all to keep;
I care not whose the beauties
Of all the world may be,
For Phyllida—for Phyllida
Is all the world to me!
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