Desponding Phyllis was endu’d
With ev’ry talent of a prude: 
She trembled when a man drew near;
Salute her, and she turn’d her ear: 
If o’er against her you were placed,
She durst not look above your waist: 
She’d rather take you to her bed,
Than let you see her dress her head;
In church you hear her, thro’ the crowd,
Repeat the absolution loud: 
In church, secure behind her fan,
She durst behold that monster man: 
There practis’d how to place her head,
And bite her lips to make them red;
Or, on the mat devoutly kneeling,
Would lift her eyes up to the ceiling. 
And heave her bosom unaware,
For neighb’ring beaux to see it bare. 
  At length a lucky lover came,
And found admittance to the dame,
Suppose all parties now agreed,
The writings drawn, the lawyer feed,
The vicar and the ring bespoke: 
Guess, how could such a match be broke? 
See then what mortals place their bliss in! 
Next morn betimes the bride was missing: 
The mother scream’d, the father chid;
Where can this idle wench be hid? 
No news of Phyl! the bridegroom came,
And thought his bride had skulk’d for shame;
Because her father used to say,
The girl had such a bashful way! 
  Now John the butler must be sent
To learn the road that Phyllis went: 
The groom was wish’d[1] to saddle Crop;
For John must neither light nor stop,
But find her, wheresoe’er she fled,
And bring her back alive or dead. 
  See here again the devil to do! 
For truly John was missing too: 
The horse and pillion both were gone! 
Phyllis, it seems, was fled with John. 
  Old Madam, who went up to find
What papers Phyl had left behind,
A letter on the toilet sees,
“To my much honour’d father—­these—­”
(’Tis always done, romances tell us,
When daughters run away with fellows,)
Fill’d with the choicest common-places,
By others used in the like cases. 
“That long ago a fortune-teller
Exactly said what now befell her;
And in a glass had made her see
A serving-man of low degree. 
It was her fate, must be forgiven;
For marriages were made in Heaven: 
His pardon begg’d:  but, to be plain,
She’d do’t if ’twere to do again: 
Thank’d God, ’twas neither shame nor sin;
For John was come of honest kin. 
Love never thinks of rich and poor;
She’d beg with John from door to door. 
Forgive her, if it be a crime;
She’ll never do’t another time. 
She ne’er before in all her life
Once disobey’d him, maid nor wife.” 
One argument she summ’d up all in,
“The thing was done and past recalling;
And therefore hoped she should recover
His favour when his passion’s over. 
She valued not what others thought her,
And was—­his most obedient daughter.” 
Fair maidens all, attend the Muse,
Who now the wand’ring pair pursues: 
Away they rode in homely sort,