A Song

Attempt not, dissembler, to move me,
'Tis seldom I alter my mind;
Nor ever unjust shall you prove me,
Tho' you happen to think me unkind .

But, vainly, alas! you discover,
The graces, and wit, of your friend;
My son is too constant a lover,
To suffer his passion to bend.

Both beauty, and wit, I lay claim to,
And those, to a daughter, can grant;
My offspring can boast of the same, too,
'Tis money alone, that we want.

Then ask no more questions, good Madam;
Put beauty, and wit, in one scale;
In another , a gypsy, from Haddam ,
The last, if she's rich , will prevail.
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