by Caroline Pranckevicius
I trifle not at your discontent.
Never shall another vile man or foul woman strike at thy love with question, or woo it in cursed night.
From which idle dreams,
peasant lovers, such as yourself, slander the very spot they hath maiden vows to please drunkards.
Measure every damn winter,
in which they call you wench under their tongues, by its bawdy light. Tempt the friendly poison, and see more mercy than manners. Nothing fills your empty nights.
The is a tale of the perilous fortune of grace.
They torment your vehemence yet vouchsafe with much haste their wicked lordship. And woe makes a mischance of you.
Forswear this vulgar villain,
and jest merrily as he beseeches thee. A drunk with an empty goblet begs for a perchance at forgiveness;
Ask him if he knows you a lady,
and tell him he should deceive anew once he says he knowest not a lady like you.
Never yield to quench him,
as oft you did. Leave him to wilt, his death may be mortal, but his desperate soul will be yours infinitely.