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A Lady Comforting her self the best Way she can, after losing her Maiden-head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


56

A Lady Comforting her self the best Way she can, after losing her Maiden-head.

Why should I weep, why censur'd by the Law,
For losing of the Thing I never saw,
Robin with whom I'm blam'd, dare freely say,
What ever he gave, he nothing took away.
How then can that be lost which none hath found,
And neither is above, nor yet below the Ground?
They say my Mercat's spoil'd, but they are mad,
For I have all the Ware I ever had,
The Spot is still; Robin's be welcome there,
He never did me harm, stole neither Hide nor Hair.