What shall we poor ladies do,
Match'd to shallops without brains,
Whose demains[168] are in grains,
And their wits in madding veins,
Stor'd with Neapolitan mains?
Give us sprightly sprigs of manhood,
None of these swads nor airy squibs,
Who would fain do, but cannot.
[They alter the air upon the close of every stanza.
Poor ladies, how we dwindle?
Who can spin without a spindle?
Valour never learn'd to tremble,
But in Cupid's dalliance nimble.
Little good does that stud with a stallion,
Fancies alien, weakly jointed,
Meanly mann'd, worse appointed,
Who would do, if he knew how,
But, alas! he would, but cannot.
Penelope, though she were chaste,
Yet she bade her spouse make haste,
Lest by his sojourning long
She might chance to change her song,
And do her Ulysses wrong;
What then may we, who matched be
With these haggards madly manned,
Who would gladly do, but cannot?
Shall our youthful hopes decline;
Fade and perish in their prime:
And like forc'd Andromeda
Estrang'd from fancy's law!
Shall we wives and widows be,
Bound unto a barren tree?
Ushers come and apple-squires
To complete our free desires:
Platonics there be store
Fitly fram'd and train'd to man it.
Bavin once set afire
Will not so soon expire;
Let's never stay with such as they,
Who gladly would, but cannot.
Shall we love, live, and feel no heat
While our active pulses beat?
Shall we hug none of our own,
But such as drop from th' frigid zone?
Let's rather suit old love adieu,
And i' th' requests suit for some new
Who have the heart to man it.
Tell us not this nor tell us that;
A kid is better than a cat,
And though he show, we know not what,
He cannot.
Fri. As I'm a virgin, ladies, bravely performed!
Once more Frontiniac, and then a walk.
[She drinks.
This wine wants flavour, sapour, odour, vigour;
Taste it, dear madam, 'tis as pall and flat
As a sear fly-flap.