The Discontented Lady: A New SONG much in Request.
To a New Tune much in Request at Court and the Play-House.
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I.
How vile are the sordid Intreagues of the Town,
cheating and lying perpetually sway,
From the blue cap to the politick gown,
a plotting and sotting they wast the day;
All their Discourse is of Foreign Affairs,
The French and the Wars
Is always their Cry;
Marriage alas! is declining,
And I a poor Virgin lye pining,
a Curse of their Jarring, what Luck have I.
II.
I thought a young Trader by ogling Charms,
into my Conjugal Fetters to bring.
I planted my snare too, for one that lov'd Arms,
but found his Design was another thing.
From the Court Province down to the dull Cits,
Both Cullies and Wits,
Of Marriage are shye;
Great are the Sins of the Nation,
A Shame of the wretched Occasion,
a curse of the Monsieurs, what Luck have I.
III.
A Counsellor promis'd to give me a Fee,
and swore|he would make me a Lady of Sport
But I was resolv'd not a Harlot to be,
if he could have made me Lass of the Court.
When that he saw how I was inclin'd,
And what I design'd,
He made me|Reply,
Virgins alas! are too cruel,
Oh! be kind to me, my dear Jewel,
a curse of your whining I then did cry.
IV.
The next a young Seaman, of Honour and Fame,
he daily contrived my Love for to win;
And swore if he could but my Favour obtain,
great Treasure & Riches unto me he'd bring:
But when he saw that I would not yield,
Unto him the Field,
Unless he would wed;
He stood like a Man was inchanted,
Sure never was Seaman so daunted,
because I refus'd him my Maiden-head.
V.
Of late a young Scholar from
Oxford did come,
whom for a Husband I thought to intrap;
But I did find him too hard to be won,
which makes me complain at my cruel mishap:
All Men alike of Marriage are shye,
Which makes me to cry,
A Shame of them all!
Thus to leave Wedlock declining,
And I a poor Virgin lye pining;
when that my Request it is but so small.
VI.
The Counsellor, Soldier, and Country-man too,
daily from Tavern to Coffee-House go;
There they do plot and contrive what to do,
which makes my poor Heart be so full of Woe:
They talk of Religion, though little they have;
But how to live brave,
They always do strive,
And leave a poor Virgin complaining,
While they their Designs are obtaining,
Sure there is no honest Men scarce alive.
Printed for C. Bates, at the White Hart in West-smithfield.