The Fifth Plague.

  All Day poor I do sit Disconsolate,

Cursing the grievous Rigor of my Fate,
To think how I have seven Years betray’d,
To that dull empty Title of a Maid. 
If that I could my self but Woman write,
With what transcendent Pleasure and Delight,
Should I for ever, thrice for ever Bless,
The Man that led me to such Happiness.

The Sixth Plague.

  Pox take the thing Folks call a Maiden-head,

For soon as e’er I’m sleeping in my Bed,
I dream I’m mingling with some Man my Thigh,
Till something more than ord’nary does rise;
But when I wake and find my Dream’s in vain,
I turn to Sleep only to Dream again,
For Dreams as yet are only kind to me,
And at the present quench my Lechery.

The Seventh Plague.

  Of late I wonder what’s with me the Matter,

For I look like Death, and am as weak as Water,
For several Days I loath the sight of Meat,
And every Night I chew the upper Sheet;
[*?]e such Obstructions, that I’m almost moap’d,
And breath as if my Vitals all were stop’d. 
I told a Friend how strange with me it was,
She, an experienc’d Bawd, soon grop’d the Cause,
Saying, for this Disease, take what you can,
You’ll ne’er be well, till you have taken Man.
Therefore, before with Maiden-heads I’ll be
Thus plagu’d, and live in daily Misery,
Some Spark shall rummage all my Wem about,
To find this wonderful Distemper out.

The Eighth Plague.

  Now I am young, blind Cupid me bewitches,

I scratch my Belly, for it always itches,
And what it itches for, I’ve told before,
’Tis either to be Wife, or be a Whore;
Nay any thing indeed, would be poor I,
N’er Maiden-heads upon my Hands should lie,
Which till I lose, I’m sure my watry Eyes
Will pay to Love so great a Sacrifice,
That my Carcass soon will weep out all its Juice,
Till grown so dry, as fit for no Man’s use.

The Ninth Plague.

  By all the pleasant Postures of Delight,

By all the Twines and Circles of the Night,
By the first Minute of those Nuptial Joys,
When Men put fairly for a Brace of Boys,
Dying a Virgin once I more do dread,
Than ten times losing of a Maiden head;
For tho’ it can’t be seen nor understood,
Yet is it troublesome to Flesh and Blood.

The Tenth Plague.

  You heedless Maids, whose young and tender Hearts

Unwounded yet, have scop’d the fatal Darts;
Let the sad Fate of a poor Virgin move,
And learn by me to pay Respect to Love. 
If one can find a Man fit for Love’s Game,
To lose one’s Maiden-head it is no Shame: 
’Tis no Offence, if from his tender Lip
I snatch a tonguing Kiss; if my fond Clip
With loose Embraces oft his Neck surround,
For Love in Debts of Nature’s ever bound.