Hark! wot ye what? Nay, faith, and shall I tell?
I am afraid, to die a maid, and then lead apes in hell.
Oh it makes me sigh and sob with inward grief;
But if I can but get a man, he'll yield me some relief.
Oh it is strange how Nature works with me;
My body's spent and I lament mine own great folly.
Oh it makes me sigh and pour forth floods of tears,
Alas, poor elf, none but thyself would live, having such cares.
I must confess as maids have virtue store,
Live honest still against our wills, more fools we are therefore.
Oh it makes me sigh, yet hope doth still me good,
For if I can but get a man, with him I'll spend my blood.