Classic Poem

A poore wench was sighing, and weeping amaine,
And faine would she have her virginitie againe,
Lost she knew not how; in her sleep (as she said)
She went to bed pure, but she rise not a maid:
She made fast the doore,
She was certaine before
She laid her selfe downe in the bed:
But when she awaked, the truth is stark-naked,
Oh she mist her maiden-head.