The Lass of Maiden-lane

And is it thus the poets sing, Each one his fav'rite lass, Comparing her to summer, spring, To make her all surpass? Ah! songsters, lovers, straight forego The fondly praising strain, For sure I am, ye do not know, The lass of Maiden-Lane.

Say, what is person, fortune, grace, If wisdom be not join'd? What are the beauties of the face, Save knowledge deck the mind? Ah! songsters, rhymers, then, forego The fondly praising strain, For sure I am, ye do not know, The lass of Maiden-Lane.

What tho in beauty others may Eclipse the pleasing fair, Eliza holds a sov'reign sway, Her virtues are so rare: Then songsters, lovers, straight forego The adulating strain, For sure I am, ye do not know, The lass of Maiden Lane.

Think not I'm lavish of my praise, The fondly praising strain, But sigh, "May Heaven on me bestow, The lass of Maiden Lane."