THE KENTISH Maiden: OR, The Fumbling Ale-draper Derided.  
Who gave a Handkerchief and Money for a Night's lodging with a Lass whom at length he left in the lurch.  
Tune of, The Languishing Swain.  
Licenced according to Order.  
 

I Was a modest maid of Kent,  
Who never knew what kissing meant;  
Until my master tempted me,  
With gifts for my virginity.   

Long was I courted e'er i'd yield,  
And when at last he won the field;  
He gave me a lawn kerchief fine  
Declaring that it should be mine.   

Likewise a golden guinea bright,  
That he might lie with me one night;  
I granted his demands straightway  
What lass alive, could say him nay?   

He was right generous and free,  
Bestowing such large gifts on me;  
Yet, I did such a conscience make,  
That I would not his guinea take.   
 

My conscience said, it was too much,  
To take for just one single touch;  
And therefore when he laid it down,  
I took no more than one poor crown.   

The which he gave me then with speed,  
And thus we lovingly agreed,  
That he should have my maidenhead:  
I got new cording to my bed,   

For fear the old ones they should brake,  
Which would a sad distraction make,  
And cause a strange discovery,  
Of all my master's love to me.   

Clean shéets I likewise did provide,  
Nothing was wanting on my side:  
Yet when he to my lodging came,  
Alas! he could not play the game.   

Our game was single rapier first;  
Now when he came to give the thrust,  
A pass at me could not be made,  
He having such a limber blade.   

I bid him to his weapon stand,  
I craved no favour at his hand:  
Yet he was forced to sneak away,  
Before the morning break of day.   

Thus was my expectations crossed,  
And my dear master's labour lost:  
Which grieved my very heart full sore,  
Was ever maid so balked before?   

One sorrow never comes alone,  
Soon after this my dame did own,  
The handkerchief which then I wore,  
Saying, That it was here's before.   

Then did she fly at me in brief,  
And told me I had played the thief.  
Your words I scorn, no thief am I,  
Nor shall you catch me in a lie.   

This hankercheif not long ago,  
My master did on me bestow,  
The night before with me he lay;  
Now where's the harm of this I pray?   

The mistress flew, and called her whore,  
And by the quoif, the maid she tore;  
Must you forsooth, my partner be,  
Where there's not half enough for me.   

Dear mistress be not in a rage,  
You speak the truth I dare engage:  
For though all night by me he lay,  
He could not one sweet lesson play.   

But straight in wrath replied her dame,  
You saucy slut you are to blame,  
In letting him lie in your bed;  
Suppose he'd got your maidenhead.   

Forsooth, said she, had it been so,  
It might have proved my overthrow;  
But he can never hurt a maid,  
With such a feeble limber blade.    

Printed for J. Back, at the Black-boy on London Bridge.