The ANSWER to the Buxom VIRGIN OR, The Farmer well-fitted, for slighting his first Love Honest Joan.  
When Men can be so false as he,  
And Waver with the Wind,  
I do protest, I do not jest,  
They're fitted in their kind.  
To the Tune of, The Countrey-Farmer, Or, The Buxom Virgin.  
 

The Country Farmer is now undone,  
he knoweth not whether t● go or run,  
Now into a snare he is thus betrayed,  
By marrying with Gillian the buxom maid:  
Is true as we are in this place,  
Within the term of two months' space,  
She made him a sorrowful sour face,  
That Nedde was in a most woeful case.   

And just in the middle of all the night,  
She put him into a most fearful fright,  
Her pitiful groans and sorrowful cries,  
Compelled the Farmer at length to rise:  
Then slipping on his shoes and hose,  
carelessly putting on his clothes,  
Starts in a hurry away he goes,  
〈…〉 her mother, then strait the arose.   

O what is the matter my son said she,  
You call in a hurry so hastily,  
Nay marry quoth Ned, I do not know  
Your daughter hath filled my heart with woe,  
With woeful groans and dismal cries,  
My senses all she did surprise,  
So that at the length I was forced to rise,  
But what is the matter I cannot devise.   

When she had considered of what he said,  
She posted away and no time delayed,  
The Old woman was in a woeful touse,  
And trotting away to her Daughter's house,  
But coming there, she knew full well,  
As I to you the truth may tell,  
That Gillian had been too oft at the Mill,  
And that was the cause of her falling ill.   

Those Millers, quoth she, are such pomperd blades  
Thus doing, they ruin poor harmless maids,  
I think there is hardly one in ten,  
That can be reputed right honest men:  
There is Robin, Ralph, and lusty Will,  
All brawny Blades of wanton skill  
That never maid can go to the Mill,  
But they will be kissing and courting still.   

But why should we tattle and talk of this,  
She is not the first that hath done amiss,  
Go fetch the Midwife and call the Nurse,  
Come come my dear Son it is well it's no worse:  
The Farmer he Saddled bonny Rone,  
And Rid full speed five miles alone,  
Then sighing and sobbing, and making moan,  
He wished he had never forsaken Joan.   

But after the trouble was o'er and passed,  
A Chopping brave Boy she enjoyed at last,  
But Nedde at this his stomach it rose,  
To Father the Brat that was none of his:  
Said they the Calf must with the Cow,  
Both Law and reason doth allow,  
Therefore my dear son be contented now,  
In time he may come to drive the Blow.   

This being considered, he soon was kind,  
Though he at the first was disturbed in mind  
Then putting an end to the whole dispute,  
He gave his sweet Gillian a kind salute:  
To Father it he will not fail,  
O now appears a pleasant gale,  
When they with the Farmer did thus prevail,  
They drank up full brimmers of Nappy Ale.   

The Women and he they were all agreed,  
To christian the bantling now with speed,  
Then strait for the business they prepare,  
The Names of the Gossips I will declare,  
The one was Edward's Cousin Phill,  
The other jolly bouncing Nell,  
And Roger the Miller of Holeton-Dell,  
So this being over, than all was well.   
FINIS.   

Printed for I. Deacon, at the Sign of the Angel in Guilt-spur street, without Newgate.