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.