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Upon a Girle, would be his Wife, 'cause She had been his Wench.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Upon a Girle, would be his Wife, 'cause She had been his Wench.

Wed thee, fond Thing? I am not so accurs'd,
Believe it, I will loose my earnest first.
I hope, I better for my self shall choose,
Than e're to bring You to Your wedding Shooes.
Travel on those You have, till new You get,
I'm not so put to't for a Cloak-bag yet.
You have Your aim, both shape and colour miss'd:
For You are Dun, and I have now no list.
You talk of Loving Letters that I sent,
In which, troth, nothing less than Love was meant;

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I only woo'd you to secure that name,
Of which You made a deed of gift to shame.
That I should court You, sure You could not think,
Whose Reputation's blacker than my ink?
For in Your shape I nothing see, unless
You'd have me Servant to Your ugliness?
No, know it I had rather woo the Pox,
Than e're be set with thee in Nuptial stocks;
And since all Stomacks (Girl) are not the same,
Be wary therefore in your after game.
Travel, but far, you may a Husband get,
The Hungry are content with broken meat.
The Liberty you gave me was too ample:
A maiden-head may not afford a sample.