THE
Youngmans careless Wooing,
And the Witty Maids Replication;
All done out of old English Proverbs.
To the Tune of, Mars and Venus.
This may be Printed. R. P.
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DOwn in an Arbour devoted to Venus,
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unseen I heard, two fond Lovers contend;
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Noting how Cupid from business can wean us
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and yet their Love, come to an unhappy end
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The blinded Boy no victory wins,
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As you shall hear he now begins.
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I prethee Sweetheart grant me my desire,
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for I am thrown as the old Proverb goes,
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Out of the Frying-pan into the Fire:
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and there is none doth pitty my woes,
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Then hang or drownd himself my muse
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For there is not a T----- to choose.
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Most Maids are false tho some seem holyer
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yet I believe they are all of one mind,
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Like unto like, quoth the Deel to the Collier:
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and theyl prove true when the Devil is blind,
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Let no Man yield to their desire
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For the burnd Child doth dread the fire.
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Tell me not my Love, as white as the Dove is
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for you would say so if you saw her within
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Shitten come shites the beginning of Love is,
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and for her favour I care not a pin,
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No love of mine, she ever shall be,
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Sirreverence of her Company.
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I will no more in love by her hands shake
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let her go seek one that fits for her mind,
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You know whats good for a Sow as a Pancake:
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and under such Dirt, ile nere be confind
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And he that hopes her Love to win,
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Resolves to run through thick and thin.
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Tho her disdainfulness my heart hath cloven
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yet am I of so gallant a mind
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Ile ner creep in her Arse to bake in her oven.
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for tis an old Proverb, Cat after kind,
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And this Ile say until I dye,
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Farewel & be hangd, thats I wis good buy.
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The silly Maid drownd in Tears of vexation,
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sending to him whom she lovd best of all;
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Such a sad sonnet so pesterd with passion
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tearing her hair to the ground she did fall,
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But rising up undauntedly
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she unto him made this reply.
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If I should grant unto thee thy desire
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without obtaining my Mother good will
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Then Im sure all the Fats in the Fire:
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I know what I think, and think I will still,
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my Muse and yours are paltry Elves
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They may go hang and drown themselves.
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Thou mayst go follow thy sweetheart to Norwich
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she is a Lass thats fit for your Tooth,
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A Sluts good enough to make Slovens Porridge
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and that was the reason yea left me forsooth;
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But this I say, and will do still,
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Tis a good Jack makes a good Jill.
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I must confess that I loved thee well one day,
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but ere that thou findst me do so again,
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Thou shalt come kiss me where I sat on Sunday;
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We foolish Maids put to much trust in Men,
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For when we think we are in our Heaven,
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You leave us all at sixes and seavens.
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Thou only seekest to know where my stock is
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But stay by my troth, some are wiser than some
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Near is my Petticoat, nearer my Smock is,
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and thy Entertainment shall be like Jack Drum
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For when my Portion thou hast got,
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Tis need that makes the old Wife trot.
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And thus to conclude upon our conferring,
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most Men are as false, very few Men are true
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They are neither Fish, Flesh, nor yet good red her-ring
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we must speak truth, give the Devil his dew:
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And this shall be my last reply
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Go walk up out Knave what care I.
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