He knew poor Maiden-flesh was frail;
And laughs now I have nought to say,
But who can help what will away.
But let the blame upon me lie,
I had no heart him to denie:
Had I another Maidenhead,
I’d lose it ere I went to bed:
For what can all the world more say,
Than who can help what will away?
(Sportive Wit; or, The Muses’ Merriment.)