A Song Sent to a Lady, Who Gave the Subject For it, by Complaining of the Hard Fate of Women

I.

How hard is the poor Woman's Fate,
Whether she soon, or late is won,
No Thanks deserves, if 'tis too late,
Nor Love, if that she yields too soon.

II.

By Man, forc'd to Hypocrisie,
Yet for it, by him, most condemn'd,
Hated, if Love she does deny,
And yet, for granting it, contemn'd,

III.

By him, with whom she soon complies,
Is thought, a coming Easie Whore,
A false Jilt, if she Love denies,
And does it, only to get more:

IV.

If Love, or Generosity,
Make her, to Man, for nothing yield,
Her Honour grows her Infamy,
Her Kindness is, her Cheapness held;
V.

So, whether the Poor Woman does,
Show Man her Love, or show him none,
She must her Friends, or Credit lose,
Which, lost, or kept, must be undone:

VI.

A Mercenary Jilt be thought,
Else, a more coming Common Whore,
If she stands off, 'tis to be bought,
Or yields soon, 'tis but to get more:

VII.

So, whether you stand off, or yield,
To your Admirer, late, or soon,
You, for a Wench, will still be held,
Yet be, no Mercenary one:

VIII.

But sooner, out of Modesty,
To save your Credit, yield to me,
Since Love, grows no Dame's Infamy,
Till Mercenary, thought to be:

IX.

Yield up your Honour, more to gain,
Lest standing off, and seeming Nice,
You, by your less'ning more your Man,
Seem to inhanse, but more your Price:

X.

To make your Modesty, your Shame,
Of which you do but make a Show;
To get more Coin, not keep more Fame;
Till your Shame, does your Virtue grow.
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.