The VIRGIN's 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,
That makes her rail against them in such passion.
To the Tune of, Cupids Courtesie, etc.
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I Am so deep in love,
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I cannot hide it,
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It breaks me of my rest,
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and of my quiet;
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For when I see his face,
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it so inflames me,
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That I must love him still,
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though the world blame me.
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O fye upon this love,
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it will undo me,
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I'll ne'er love man ag[a]in,
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should the Gods wooe me;
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For if once I can
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shake off this passion,
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I'll ne'er love man again,
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but only for fashion.
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There's no believe in man,
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though they seem civil,
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For when they sit like saints,
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they think most evil;
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Therefore be rul'd by me,
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never trust no man,
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But if you needs must love,
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pray love a woman.
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I wish blind Cupid had
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been soundly sleeping.
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When like a crafty lad
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he came so creeping,
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To wound my tender heart,
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and pierce my marrow,
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I felt his fatal dart,
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to my great sorrow.
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Never poor virgin was
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in such a taking,
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I oft lookt in my glass,
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pleasure forsaking;
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My cheeks were pale and wan,
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my lips did trimble,
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Because I lov'd a man
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that did dissemble.
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O what a simple girle
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I was for certain,
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For to love Lord or Earl,
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I will not hearken;
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Not one in twenty score
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but is deceitful,
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Therefore I'll love no more,
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men are deceitful.
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It is their constant trade
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to cog and flatter,
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Or to delude a maid,
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her fort to batter;
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But if they prate and lye,
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I'll not believe them,
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Such love I'll never try,
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altho' it grieve them.
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They'll profess and pretend
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much of affection,
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Until they make you bend
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to love's subj[e]ction:
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Of your hearts craftily
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they will bereave you,
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Till a new face they spy,
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then they will leave you.
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Their words are all but wind,
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like winter-weather,
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Unconstant and unkind,
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light as a feather:
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I tell you flat and plain
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I'll not abide it,
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To love a man again,
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once having try'd it.
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Blame me not though I be
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something in passion,
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For now I plainly see
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it is the fashion;
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For such false-hearted men
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are grown so common,
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That when I love again,
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I'll love a woman.
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Why should a woman dote
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on such a bubble,
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That's good for nothing but
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to procure trouble?
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Every day I will pray
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for to live single,
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That my affection may
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with no man's mingle.
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Ladies take my advice,
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you have rare features,
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Always be coy and nice
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to such false creatures;
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No man will constant prove,
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no not my brother;
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Then if you needs must love,
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love one another.
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