The MILK-MAIDS
MORNING-SONG.
What worser Fortune can there be,
Then what doth now attend on me,
A maid to live, and so to dye,
It is a great perplexity;
A Pleasant Ballad you have hear,
Wherein 'tis plainly made appear,
That what is writ of this milk-ma[id]
Of other Damsels may be said.
To the Tune of, Ginny Gin, Or , The fair one Let me in.
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A Merry Milk-Maid on a time,
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as I was passing by,
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A Milking of her gentle Kine,
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I chanced to espy:
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I nearer step'd, and listning stood,
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and as I drew more near,
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'Twas a fair Maid I understood,
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whose voice did sound most clear.
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A pleasant and delightful Tune,
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then sounded in mine ear,
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A sweeter voice I dare presume
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no Mortal e're did hear:
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To Lovers all it doth belong,
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then listen unto me,
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And you shall hear this pleasant song,
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if you will patient be.
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I'me glad quoth she, that I'me awake,
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for torment 'tis to lye,
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And such a grievous moan to make,
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for want of Company:
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I'de better never go to Bed,
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then there to lye and pine,
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And cannot loose my Maiden-head,
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what Rigid Fate is mine.
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How happy are those women kind,
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who do not lye alone,
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But comfort find, in heart and mind,
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and never make their moan:
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While I poor Soul sigh and condole,
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still wanting Loves delights,
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Upon my restless Bed I roul;
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these long and tedious nights.
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They hourely taste of Lovers Bliss,
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and what their hearts desire,
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They e'ry moment change a kiss,
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which them with joys inspire:
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They prate of all the silent night,
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the sweetness of that Theam,
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Which I would taste of if I might,
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it doeh so pleasant seem.
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O what a fleeting joy is this,
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it can no pleasure be,
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When I my expectation miss,
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'tis perfect Death to me;
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Just like as in a Looking-Glass,
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your features you may see,
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Which from your sight away doth pass,
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if it removed be.
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O Cruel Fortune too unkind,
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tell me the reason why?
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That I from Bliss am thus confin'd,
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and must a Maiden dye:
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Must I not taste that happiness,
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which doth so pleasant prove,
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There's nothing can poor Lovers bless,
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but Sillibubs of Love.
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Must I lead Apes in Hell below,
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no, no, it may not be,
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For Nature very well I know,
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did other ways decree:
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Ten thousand plagues together meet,
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in harmeless Maidens Beds,
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No loss so pleasant and so sweet,
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as that of Maiden-Heads.
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The Marry'd woman she doth boast,
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how rarely she doth live,
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While I Distracted run almost,
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no comfort I receive:
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Poor harmeless soul I whine and pine,
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let me do what I can,
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Nothing more plagues the Soul of mine,
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than want of a Young-Man.
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And now Virginity adieu,
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I'le venture once to try,
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And steal what I account my due,
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a Maid I will not dye:
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And so farewell my Lovely Cows ,
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for I am almost mad,
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But do resolve to keep my vows,
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if Man be to be had.
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