I.

Love's the cause of all my weeping,
Cou'd I but declare my pain;
He, who has my heart, in keeping,
Might be brought to love again.

II.

Maiden's virtue spoils their pleasure;
If it were but once decreed,
Virgins, for themselves, might measure,
Love would, then, be sweet, indeed.

III.

But that check upon our nature,
Freezing up our youthful heats,
Only spoils a pretty creature,
Teaching her to gnaw the sheets.