THE Youngmans' careless Wooing: And the Witty Maid's Replication;  
All done out of old English Proverbs.  
To the Tune of, Mars and Venus.  

This may be Printed.  
R. P.   

 

DOwn in an Arbour devoted to Venus,  
unseen I heard, two fond Lovers contend;  
Noting how Cupid from business can wean us  
and yet their Love, come to an unhappy end  
The blinded Boy no victory wins,  
As you shall hear he now begins.   

I prithee Sweetheart grant me my desire,  
for I am thrown as the old Proverb goes,  
Out of the Frying-pan into the Fire:  
and there is none doth pity my woes,  
Then hang or drowned himself my muse  
For there is not a T— to choose.   

Most Maids are false though some seem holier  
yet I believe they are all of one mind,  
Like unto like, quoth the Devil to the Collier:  
and they'll prove true when the Devil is blind,  
Let no Man yield to their desire  
For the burned Child doth dread the fire.   

Tell me not my Love, as white as the Dove is  
for you would say so if you saw her within  
Shitten come shites the beginning of Love is,  
and for her favour I care not a pin,  
No love of mine, she ever shall be,  
Sirreverence of her Company.   

I will no more in love by her hands shake  
let her go seek one that fits for her mind,  
You know what's good for a Sow as a Pancake:  
and under such Dirt, i'll ne'er be confined  
And he that hopes her Love to win,  
Resolves to run through thick and thin.   

Tho' her disdainfulness my heart hath cloven  
yet am I of so gallant a mind  
I'll ne'er creep in her Arse to bake in her oven.  
for 'tis an old Proverb, Cat after kind,  
And this I'll say until I die,  
Farewell a be hanged that's I wis good buy.    

 
 The Witty MAIDS Answer. 

The silly Maid drowned in Tears of vexation,  
sending to him whom she loved best of all;  
Such a sad sonnet so pestered with passion  
tearing her hair to the ground she did fall,  
But rising up undauntedly  
she unto him made this reply.   

If I should grant unto thee thy desire  
without obtaining my Mother good will  
Then i'm sure all the Fats in the Fire:  
I know what I think, and think I will still,  
my Muse and yours are paltry Elves  
They may go hang and drown themselves.   

Thou may'st go follow thy sweetheart to Norwich  
she is a Lass that's fit for your Tooth,  
A Sluts good enough to make Slovens Porridge  
and that was the reason yea left me forsooth;  
But this I say, and will do still,  
'Tis a good jack makes a good Jill.   

I must confess that I loved thee well one day,  
but ere that thou findst me do so again,  
Thou shalt come kiss me where I sat on Sunday  
We foolish Maids put to much trust in Men,  
For when we think we are in our Heaven,  
You leave us all at six and seven.   

Thou only seekest to know where my stock is  
But stay by my troth, some are wiser than som●  
Near is my Petticoat, nearer my Smock is,  
and thy Entertainment shall be like jack Drum  
For when my Portion thou hast got,  
'Tis need that makes the old Wife troth.   

And thus to conclude upon our conferring,  
most Men are as false, very few Men are true  
They are neither Fish, Flesh, nor yet good red herring  
we must speak truth, give the Devil his dew  
And this shall be my last reply  
Go walk up out Knave what care I.     

Printed for P. Brooksby at the Golden Ball in Pie-corner.