THE
KENTISH Maiden:
OR,
The Fumbling Ale-draper Derided.
Who gave a Handkerchief and Money for a Nights lodg-
ing with a Lass whom at length he left in the lurch.
Tune of, The Languishing Swain. Licensed according to Order.
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I Was a modest maid of Kent,
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Who never knew what kissing meant;
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Until my master tempted me,
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With gifts for my virginity.
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Long was I courted eer id yield,
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And when at last he won the field;
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He gave me a lawn kerchief fine
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Declaring that it should be mine.
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Likewise a golden guinea bright,
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That he might lye with me one night;
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I granted his demands straightway
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What lass alive, could say him nay?
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He was right generous and free,
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Bestowing such large gifts on me;
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Yet I did such a conscience make,
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That I would not his guinea take.
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My conscience said, it was too much,
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To take for just one single touch;
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And therefore when he laid it down,
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I took no more then one poor crown.
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The which he gave me then with speed,
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And thus we lovingly agreed,
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That he should have my maiden-head:
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I got new cording to my bed,
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For fear the old ones they should brake,
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Which would a sad destraction make,
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And cause a strange discovery,
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Of all my masters love to me.
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Clean sheets I likewise did provide,
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Nothing was wanting on my side:
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Yet when he to my lodging came,
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Alas! he could not play the game.
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Our game was single rapier first;
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Now when he came to give the thrust,
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A pass at me could not be made,
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He having such a limber blade.
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I bid him to his weapon stand,
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I cravd no favour at his hand:
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Yet he was forcd to sneak away,
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Before the morning break of day.
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Thus was my expectations crost,
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And my dear masters labour lost:
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Which grievd my very heart full sore,
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Was ever maid so balkd before?
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One sorrow never comes alone,
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Soon after this my dame did own,
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The handkercheif which then I wore,
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Saying, That it was hers before.
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Then did she fly at me in brief,
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And told me I had playd the thief.
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Your words I scorn, no thief am I,
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Nor shall you catch me in a lye.
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This hankercheif not long ago,
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My master did on me bestow,
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The night before with me he lay;
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Now wheres the harm of this I pray?
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The mistress flew, and calld her whore,
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And by the quoif, the maid she tore;
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Must you forsooth, my partner be,
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Where theres not half enough for me.
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Dear mistress be not in a rage,
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You spake the truth I dare ingage:
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For though all night by me he lay,
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He could not one sweet lesson play.
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But strait in wrath replyd her dame,
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You sawcy slut you are to blame,
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In letting him lye in your bed;
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Suppose hed got your maiden-head.
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Forsooth, said she, had it been so,
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It might have provd my overthrow:
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But he can never hurt a maid,
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With such a feeble limber blade.
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