The Necessitated Virgin,
See here the Virgin in distress,
Complains Young-men are pittiless;
And she full fain would comfort find,
To ease her sad perplexed mind.
Tune of, What shall I do, shall I dye for love, etc.
|
W Hat shall I do in this deep distress,
|
is there no help to be had?
|
Young-Men are grown so pittiless,
|
'twill make poor Maids run mad.
|
I am full fifteen Years of age,
|
my Fortune is so bad;
|
It puts me into such a Rage,
|
'twill make me run quite mad.
|
And had my Mothers fortune been
|
like mine, so grievous sad,
|
Then what a plight had she been in,
|
and like me, almost mad.
|
Had I a Sweet-heart at this time,
|
some thundring whisking Lad;
|
To ease me now I'm in the Prime,
|
'twould save my running mad.
|
But I am quite Unfortunate,
|
worse luck no Girl e're had;
|
Year after Year to pine and wait,
|
'twill surely make me mad.
|
Come Rich or Poor; come Old or Young,
|
and make my heart full glad;
|
For now my passion is so strong,
|
that I shall run stark mad .
|
T O see my Comrades Belly swell,
|
it makes my heart full sad,
|
And I I'm sure can kiss as well,
|
would this not make one mad.
|
Yea, some strange, old, and wrinkled things,
|
good fortune they have had;
|
Yea, taste from whence all comfort springs,
|
would this not make one mad?
|
And Doll the dirty Dairy-Maid,
|
met with a brisk young Lad;
|
At pleasant sport with her he play'd,
|
else she had run quite mad.
|
And greesie Sue , the Cook-wench too,
|
good fortune she hath had;
|
And Jone hath Sweet-hearts one or two,
|
this, this will make me mad.
|
I'm fair enough in my conceit,
|
my Portion's not so bad;
|
But if I cannot quickly ha't,
|
i'm sure I shall run mad.
|
When hand in hand I see a Girl
|
go mincing with her Lad;
|
Then from mine eye there drops a pearl,
|
and I am almost mad.
|
In Dreams sometimes my self I please,
|
and make my heart full glad;
|
I wake, see no such things as these,
|
this helps to make me mad.
|
Besides i'm jeer'd by every one,
|
'cause I no Love have had;
|
Which makes me sigh, lament and groan,
|
and makes me worse than mad.
|
I am almost possest with fears,
|
which makes me dull and sad;
|
That I shall lose my teaming years,
|
and then I shall run mad.
|
For in the world I think before
|
such ill luck none e're had;
|
Now my condition I deplore,
|
i'm ready to run mad.
|
Some gentle young-Man come away,
|
and ease my heart so sad;
|
I hourly for a Husband pray,
|
for fear I should go mad.
|
But if I cannot find relief
|
with some young lusty Lad,
|
I'le play the whore, and not the thief,
|
and save my running mad.
|
|
FINIS.
|
|
|
|