PHILLIS TO DAMON. A SONG. Remember, false Damon, how often you've said, You lov'd me as well as a man could a maid; Though you slight me at last, and I cannot tell why, Yet, trust me, I never with sorrow shall die. In my bosom so tender, your power to prove, You planted the fair blooming flow'ret of love; But for its destruction a frown you prepar'd, To blast at your pleasure the flowret you rear'd. Yet boast not your conquest, tho' from me you part, Nor think yourself wholly possess'd of my heart; Your smiles are not summer to melt the cold snow, And your frowns are not winter, I'd have you to know. Go seek for a maid that has money in store, And amuse yourself often in counting it o'er; Yet, Damon, believe me, your bliss will be small, If counting your gold and your silver be all. He that sets his heart riches and honour to find, Will learn that a kingdom's too small for his mind; He hoards up his treasures, and thinks himself scant, While the poor that's contented ne'er feels any want. The joys of the wealthy are joys of a day, For riches have wings and do oft fly away; And when they are flying we generally find, A long train of sorrow's impending behind. May all pleasures attend you, that treasures can bring, May you find of your joys a perpetual spring; Yet I'll envy her not, that has money in store, Nor think myself wretched, although I am poor. Perhaps I the truth of some shepherd may prove, Whose treasure's contentment, whose pleasure is love; Then I without wealth shall be happy as you, So Damon, false Damon, for ever adieu.