All own the Young Sylvia is pretty;
Confess her good Nature, and easie soft Air,
Nay more, that's She's wanton and witty.
Yet all the keen Arrows at Damon still cast,
Cou'd never, cou'd never, his quiet destroy,
'Till the cunning Coquett, shot me flying at last;
By a Jene say, Jene say, quoy,
By a Jene say, Jene say, quoy.
So tho' the young Sylvia were not very Fair,
Tho' she were but indifferently pretty;