The Playhouse Saint

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Near famous Covent Garden,
A dome there stands on high,
Where kings are represented
And queens in metre die;
The beaus and men of business,
Diversions hither bring,
To hear the wanton doxies prate
And see them dance and sing.

Here Phillis is a darling,
As she herself gives out,
As tight a lass as ever
Did use a double clout;
She's brisk and gay and cunning,
And wants a wedlock yoke,
Her mother was before her
As good as ever stroke.

Young suitors she had many,
From squire up to lord,
And daily she refus'd them,
For virtue was the word;
A saint she would be thought,
And dissembled all she could,
But jolly rakes all knew she was
Of playhouse flesh and blood.

Her mother when encouraged
With warm Geneva dose,
Still cry'd "Take care, dear Philly,
To keep thy haunches close."
This made her stand out stoutly
Opposing all that come,
And twenty demi-cannon still
Were mounted at her bum.

The knight and country squire,
Were shot with her disdain,
The lawyer was outwitted
The hardy soldier slain,
The bluff tarpolian sailor,
In vain cry'd "Hard a-port,"
She buffled all the shirks at sea
As the country, town and court;

The god of love, grown angry
That Phillis seemed so shy,
Resolv'd her pride to humble,
And rout her "pish and fie;"
He sent a slow foot tailor,
Who knew well how to stitch,
And in a little time had found
A button for her britch.

Yet was it not so close
But 'tis known without all doubt,
A little human figure
Has secretly dropp'd out,
And tho' some petty scandal,
Pursue this venial fact,
Her mother swears and does avow,
Her honour is intact.

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