By Heaven ’tis false, I am not vain;
And rather would the Subject be
Of your Indifference, or Disdain,
Than Wit or Raillery.
Take back the trifling Praise you give,
And pass it on some easier Fool,
Who may the injuring Wit believe,
That turns her into ridicule.
Tell her, she’s witty, fair and gay,
With all the Charms that can subdue:
Perhaps she’ll credit what you say;
But curse me if I do.
If your Diversion you design,
On my Good-nature you have prest:
Or if you do intend it mine,
You have mistook the Jest.
Philander, fly that guilty Art:
Your charming facile Wit will find,
It cannot play on any Heart,
That is sincere and kind.
For Wit with Softness to reside,
Good-nature is with Pity stor’d;
But Flattery’s the result of Pride,
And fawns to be ador’d.
Nay, even when you smile and bow,
‘Tis to be render’d more compleat:
Your Wit, with ev’ry Grace you shew,
Is but a popular Cheat.
Laugh on, and call me Coxcomb—do;
And, your Opinion to improve,
Think, all you think of me is true;
And to confirm it, swear I love.
Then, while you wreck my Soul with Pain,
And of a cruel Conquest boast,
‘Tis you, Philander, that are vain,
And witty at my cost.
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