God send her wet and wearie ere she turne!
I had beene at Oxenford, and to morrow
Have beene releast from all my maidens sorrow, 10
And tasted joy, had not my mother bin;
God, I beseech thee, make it her worst sinne!
How many maides this night lyes in their beds,
And dreame that they have lost their maidenheads!
Such dreames, such slumbers I had to[o] enjoyde, 15
If waking mallice had not them destroide.
A starved man with double death doth dye,