A Song (Phillis, be gentler, I advise)
I. Phillis, be gentler, I advise; Make up for Time mis-spent, When Beauty on its Death-bed lyes, 'Tis high time to repent. II. Such is the Malice of your Fate, That makes you old so soon; Your Pleasure ever comes too late, How early e'er begun. III. Think what a wretched Thing is she, Whose Stars contrive, in spight, The Morning of her Love should be Her fading Beauty's Night. IV. Then if, to make your Ruin more, You'll peevishly be coy, Die with the Scandal of a Whore, And never know the Joy.
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