Hark! Wot ye what?

Hark! Hark! wot ye what? nay faith, and shall I tell?

I am afraid

To die a maid.

And then lead apes in hell.

Oh, it makes me sigh and sob with inward grief;

But if I can

But get a man,

He'll yield me some relief.

Oh, oh! it is strange how Nature works with me;

My body's spent

And I lament

Mine own great folly.

Oh, it makes me sigh, and pour forth floods of tears.

Alas, poor elf,

None but thyself

Would live having such cares.

Oh, now I see that Fortune frowns on me.

By this good light

I have been ripe.

Oh, it makes me sigh, and sure it will me kill.

When I should sleep

I lie and weep.

Feeding on sorrows still.

I, I must confess as maids have virtue store,

Live honest still

Against our wills,

More fools we are therefore.

Oh, it makes me sigh, yet hope doth still me good

For if I can

But get a man,

With him I'll spend my blood.