A Fair Portion for a Fair Maid: OR,  
The thrifty Maid of Worstersheere,  
Who lives at London for a Mark a year;  
This Mark was her old Mother's gift,  
She teacheth all Maids how to shift.  
To the tune of, Gramercy penny,  

 

NOw all my Friends are dead and gone,  
alas what shall betide me,  
For I poor maid am left alone  
without a house to hide me:  
Yet still I'll be of merry cheer,  
and have kind welcome every where  
Though I have but a Mark a year,  
And that my mother gave me.   

I scorn to think of poverty,  
or wanting food or clothing,  
I'll be maintained gallantly,  
and all my life-want nothing;  
A frolic mind I'll always bear,  
my poverty shall not appear,  
Though I have but a mark a year,  
And that my mother gave me.   

Though I am but a silly Wench  
of country education,  
Yet I am wooed by Dutch and French,  
and almost every nation:  
Both Spaniards and Italians swear  
that with their hearts they love me dear,  
Yet I have but a Mark a year,  
And that my mother gave me.   

The Welsh the Irish and the Scot,  
since I came to the City,  
In love to me are wondrous hot,  
they tell me I am pretty:  
Therefore to live I will not fear,  
for I am sought with many a tear,  
Yet I have but a Mark a year,  
And that my mother gave me.   

This London is a gallant place  
to raise a Lasses fortune;  
For I that came of simple race,  
brave Roarers do importune:  
I little thought in Wostersheere  
to find such high preferment here,  
For I have but a Mark a year,  
and that my mother gave me.   

One gives to me perfumed Gloves,  
the best that he can buy me,  
Live where I will I have the loves  
of all that do live nigh me:  
If any new toys I will wear,  
I have them cost they ne'rs so dear,  
And this is for a mark a year,  
And that my mother gave me.   

My fashions with the Moon I change,  
as though I were a Lady▪  
All acquaint conceits, both new and strange,  
I'll have as soon as may be;  
Your courtly Ladies I can féere,  
In clothes but few to me come near,  
Yet I have but a Mark a year,  
And that my mother gave me.    

The second Part  
To the same Tune.  
 

FRench gowns with sléeves like pudding-bags  
I have at my requesting:  
Now I forget my country rags,  
and scorn such plain investing:  
My old acquaintance I cashéere,  
and of my kin I hate to hear,  
Though I have but a mark a year,  
And that my mother gave me.   

My Petticoats of Scarlet brave,  
of Velvet, silk and Satin:  
Some students oft my love do crave,  
that speak both Greek and Latin,  
The Soldiers for me dominéere,  
and put the rest into great fear,  
All this is for a mark a year,  
And that my mother gave me.   

The Precisian sincerely woes,  
and doth protest he loves me,  
Ho tires me out with Ies and no's,  
and to impatience moves me:  
Although an oath he will not swear,  
to lie at no time he doth fear,  
All this is for a Mark a year,  
And that my mother gave me   

My Coach drawn with four Flanders mares  
each day attends my pleasure,  
The Watermens will leave their fares  
to wait upon my leisure:  
Two Lackeys labour every where,  
and at my word run far and near,  
Though I have but a mark a year,  
And that my mother gave me.   

I'th' pleasantest place the Suburbs yields,  
my lodging is prepared:  
I can walk forth into the fields,  
where beauties oft are aired;  
When Gentlemen do spy me there,  
some compliments I'm sure to hear,  
Though I have but a mark a year,  
And that my mother gave me.   

Now if my friends were living still,  
I would them all abandon,  
Though I confess they loved me well,  
yet I so like of London,  
That farewell Dad and Mammy dear,  
and all my friends in Worstershire:  
I live well with a Mark a year,  
Which my old mother gave me.   

I would my sister Sue at home,  
knew how I live in fashion,  
That she might up to London come  
to learn this occupation:  
For I live like a Lady here,  
I wear good clothes and eat good cheer  
Yet I have but a Mark a year,  
And that my mother gave me.   

Now blessed be that happy day  
that I came to the City:  
And for the Carrier will I pray,  
before I end my Ditty.  
You Maidens that this Ditty hear,  
though means be short, yet never fear,  
For I live with a Mark a year,  
Which my old mother gave me.    
M. P.  
FINIS.   

London Printed for F. G.