‘Who would not be a royal concubine?
‘Envy’d by ev’ry lady I could see,
‘Who, if not WHORES, would fain be so—like me.’
And yet, mistaken Grosvenor, you find
His royal vows and oaths were all but wind;
He’s satisfied himself, and comes no more,
While for your comfort—you’ve the name of WHORE.
Poor Ligonier was, too, condemn’d by fate
To find at last an insufficient mate;
One who could not her eager joys pursue,