The Woman Marry’d is Divinely Blest,

But I a Virgin cannot take my Rest;
I’m discontented up, as bad a Bed,
Because I’m plagued with my Maiden-head;
A thing that do’s my blooming Years no good,
But only serves to freeze my youthful Blood,
Which slowly Circulates, do what I can,
For want of Bleeding by some skilful Man;
Whose tender hand his Launcet so will guide,
That I the Name of Maid may lay aside.

The Second Plague.

  When I’ve beheld an am’rous Youth make Love,

And swearing Truth by all the Gods above,
How has it strait inflam’d my sprightly Blood
Creating Flames, I scarcely should withstood,
But bid him boldly march, not grant me leisure
Of Parley, for ’tis Speed augments the Pleasure. 
Sirrah! tis my Misfortune not to meet
With any Man that would my Passion greet,
If he with balmy Kisses stop’d my Breath,
From which one cannot die a better Death,
Or stroke my Breasts, those Mountains of Delight,
Your very Touch would fire an Anchorite;
Next let your wanton Palm a little stray,
And dip thy Fingers in the milky way: 
Then having raiz’d me, let me gently fall,
Love’s Trumpets sound, so Mortal have at all. 
But why wish I this Bliss?  I wish in vain,
And of my plaguy Burthen do complain;
For sooner may I see whole Nations dead,
But I find one to get my Maiden-head.

The Third Plague.

  She that her Maiden-head does keep, runs through

More Plagues than all the Land of Egypt knew;
A teazing Whore, or a more tedious Wife,
Plagues not a Marry’d Man’s unhappy Life,
As much as it do’s me to be a Maid,
Of which same Name I am so much afraid,
Because I’ve often heard some People tell,
They that die Maids, must all lead Apes in Hell;
And so ’twere better I had never been,
Than thus to be perplex’d:  God save the Queen.

The Fourth Plague.

  When trembling Pris’ners all stand round the Bar,

A strange suspence about the fatal Verdict,
And when the Jury crys they Guilty are,
How they astonish’d are when they have heard it. 
When in mighty Storm a Ship is toss’d,
And all do ask, What do’s the Captain say? 
How they (poor Souls) bemoan themselves as lost,
When his Advice at last is only, Pray! 
So as it was one Day my pleasing Chance,
To meet a handsome young Man in a Grove,
Both time and place conspir’d to advance
The innocent Designs of charming Love. 
I thought my Happiness was then compleat,
Because ’twas in his Pow’r to make it so;
I ask’d the Spark if he would do the Feat,
But the unperforming Blockhead answer’d, No. 
Poor Prisoners may, I see, have Mercy shewn,
And Shipwreck’d Men may sometimes have the Luck,
To see their dismal Tempests overblown,
But I poor Virgin never shall be F——.