Proud with the spoils of royal cully, 
 With false pretence to wit and parts, 
 She swaggers like a batter'd bully 
 To try the tempers of men's hearts. 

 Tho' she appears as gay and fine 
 As jet and gems and paint can make her, 
 She ne'er shall win a heart like mine -- 
 The devil or Sir Davy take her. 

 Her bed is like the Scripture feast, 
 Where none who were invited came,
 So disappointed of her guest, 
 She took up with the blind and lame.