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THINK wretched Mortal, think no more,
How to prolong thy Breath:
For thee there are no Joys in store,
But in a welcome Death:
Then seek to lay thee under Ground,
The Grave cures all Despair;
And healeth every bitter Wound,
Giv’n by th’ ungrateful Fair.
How cou’dst thou Faith in Woman think,
Women are Syrens all;
And when Men in Loves Ocean sink,
Take Pride to see ’em fall:
Women were never real yet,
But always truth despise:
Constant to nothing but Deceit,
False Oaths and flattering Lies.
Ah! Coridon bid Life adieu,
The Gods will thee prefer;
Their Gates are open’d wide for you,
But bolted against her:
Do thou be true, you vow’d to Love,
Phillis or Death you’ll have;
Now since the Nymph doth perjured prove,
Be just unto the Grave.
A SONG.
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