The Maidens Complaint against Young-Mens Unkindness.
Of Young-Mens falshood she doth much complain,
Resolving never to love Man again:
Experience tells her Men Love but for Fashion,
Which makes her rail against them in such passion.
To the Tune of, Cupids Courtesie.
|
I Am so deep in Love,
|
I cannot hide it,
|
It breaks me of my rest,
|
and of my quiet;
|
For when I see his face,
|
it so inflames me,
|
That I must love him still
|
though the World blames me.
|
O fie upon this love,
|
it will undoe me,
|
I'le ne'r love man again,
|
should the Gods wooe me:
|
For if that once I can
|
shake of this passion,
|
I'le ne'r love man again,
|
but only for fashion.
|
There's no belief in men,
|
though they seem civil.
|
For when they sit like Saints,
|
they think most evil.
|
Therefore be rul'd by me,
|
never trust no man.
|
But if you needs must love,
|
pray love a Woman.
|
I wish blind Cupid had,
|
been soundly sleeping,
|
When like a Crafty Lad,
|
he came so creeping:
|
To wound my tender heart,
|
and pierce my Marrow;
|
I felt his fatal Dart,
|
to my great sorrow.
|
Never poor Virgin was,
|
in such a taking,
|
I oft lookt in my Glass,
|
pleasure forsaking,
|
My cheeks are pale and wan,
|
my lips do tremble.
|
Because I lov'd a Man
|
that did dissemble.
|
O What a simple Girl,
|
I was for certain,
|
For to love Lord or Earl,
|
I will not hearken:
|
Not one in twenty Score,
|
but is deceitful:
|
Therefore i'le love no more,
|
Men are ungrateful.
|
It is their constant trade
|
to cog and flatter,
|
Or to delude a Maid,
|
her sort to batter:
|
But if they prate and lye,
|
i'le not believe them,
|
Such Love i'le never try,
|
although it grieve 'em.
|
They profess and pretend,
|
much of affection,
|
Until they make you bend,
|
to loves subjection:
|
Of your hearts craftily
|
they will berieve you,
|
Till a new face they spy,
|
then they will leave you.
|
Their words are all but wind,
|
like Winter weather,
|
Unconstant and unkind,
|
light as a feather:
|
I tell you short and plain,
|
i'le not abide it,
|
To love a man again,
|
once having try'd it.
|
Blame me not though I be,
|
somewhat in passion
|
For now I plainly see,
|
it is the Fashion
|
For such false-hearted men,
|
are grown so common,
|
That when I love again
|
i'le love a Woman.
|
Why should a Woman dote
|
on such a bubble;
|
That's good for nothing but
|
to procure trouble:
|
Every day I will pray:
|
for to live single,
|
That my affections may
|
with no mans mingle.
|
Ladies take my advice
|
you have rare features,
|
Always be coy and nice,
|
to such false creatures:
|
No man will constant prove,
|
no not my brothey,
|
Then if you needs must love,
|
love one another.
|
|
|
|
|
|