Small poems of Divers sorts | ||
266
The twelfth song. The wenches complaint, Non e maggior tormento.
1
I can no greater torment findThen ly with one I cannot love;
Each minute seems a year confin'd,
So slowly then do minutes move.
When me his hap's to kiss, or touch,
I with him am offended much.
2
If he doth chance to me to say,Can it be possible (my Dear)
You so abstemious are from play
That you (against your will) ly here?
I am enforc'd in complement
To tell him I have much content.
3
Imagine Ladies, you that knowWhat a vexation it is,
If from my heart I speak or no,
And do not counterfeit all this:
For when to him I turn my back,
I mouthes at him in hatred make.
4
All that enamoured are of me,VVhom I cannot affect again,
Thus from their passions I do free;
I have no pleasure in their gain:
And (if they think I any take)
Tis with their money I it make.
267
5
Women that are by want opprestAnd therefore yield unto this vice,
Know all the world they do detest
Embraces that are not their choice.
The want of mony is unjust,
To make them subject unto lust.
Small poems of Divers sorts | ||