Hear a damsel tall and tender, Moaning in most rueful guise, With heart almost burned to cinder By the sunbeams of thine eyes.
To free damsels from disaster Is, they say, your daily care: Can you then deny a plaster To a wounded virgin here?
Tell me, doughty youth, who cursed thee With such humors and ill-luck? Was't some sullen bear dry-nursed thee, Or she-dragon gave thee suck?
Dulcinea, that virago, Well may brag of such a Cid, Now her fame is up, and may go From Toledo to Madrid.
Would she but her prize surrender, (Judge how on thy face I dote!) In exchange I'd gladly send her My best gown and petticoat.
Happy I, would fortune doom me But to have me near thy bed, Stroke thee, pat thee, currycomb thee, And hunt o'er thy knightly head.
But I ask too much, sincerely, And I doubt I ne'er must do't, I'd but kiss your toe, and fairly Get the length thus of your foot.
How I'd rig thee, and what riches Should be heaped upon thy bones! Caps and socks, and cloaks and breeches, Matchless pearls and precious stones.
Do not from above, like Nero, See me burn and slight my woe, But to quench my fires, my hero, Cast a pitying eye below.
I'm a virgin-pullet, truly; One more tender ne'er was seen. A mere chicken fledged but newly;— Hang me if I'm yet fifteen.