Phyllida, that loved to dream

Phyllida, that loved to dream
In the grove, or by the stream;
Sigh'd on velvet pillow.
What, alas! should fill her head.
But a fountain, or a mead,
Water and a willow?

Love in cities never dwells.
He delights in rural cells
Which sweet woodbine covers.
What are your assemblies then?
There, 'tis true, we see more men;
But much fewer lovers.

O, how changed the prospect grows!
Flock and herds to fops and beaux,
Coxcombs without number!
Moon and stars that shone so bright,
To the torch and waxen light,
And whole nights at ombre.

Pleasant as it is to hear
Scandal tickling in our ear,
E'en of our own mothers;
In the chit-chat of the day,
To us is paid, when we're away,
What we lent to others.

Though the favourite Toast I reign;
Wine, they say, that prompts the vain,
Heightens defamation.
Must I live 'twixt spite and fear,
Every day grow handsomer.
And lose my reputation?

Thus the fair to sighs gave way,
Her empty purse beside her lay.
Nymph, ah! cease thy sorrow.
Though curst Fortune frown to-night.
This odious town can give delight.
If you win to-morrow.