The Injured fair/The crooked rib

THE CROOKED RIB.

WHat need you talk of Hector's deeds,
⁠or Alexander's fame,
Or of proud Nature's cruelty,
⁠for no ſuch thing I'll name;
But liſten and I'll to you deſcribe,
⁠the beſt way that I can,
The proud conceits and deviliſh tricks,
⁠that lie into woman.

For women are like lions bold,
⁠always inventing evil,
They are as proud as Lucifer,
⁠deceitful as the Devil:
They'll dreſs themſelves like Phœbus fair,
⁠and like a Syren ſing,
And when they catch you in a ſnare,
⁠they'll like a ſerpent ſting.

What needs woman be ſo bold,
⁠ſince they are made of men,
And even of a crooked rib,
⁠deny this if ye can;
Made of a crooked rib, I ſay,
⁠when firſt they formed were,
And ſtill all women's nature ſhew,
⁠that women crooked are.

If I ſhould marry one that's black,
⁠my friends will frown on me,
And if I marry one that's fair,
⁠a cuckold I muſt be:
And if I marry one that's tall,
⁠ſhe'll ſurely crack my crown,
And little women peeviſh are,
⁠and oft pulls big men down.

Some young men will boaſt and brag,
⁠they've got a virtuous wife,
And are poſſeſt with all the joys,
⁠belonging to this life:
But then try them once or twice,
⁠they'll quickly let them know,
No bridle-rein will hold them in,
⁠nor ſpur will make them go.

Here is a health to all young men,
⁠who doth with me agree,
And here's a health to all fair maids,
⁠though few their number be.
And here's a health to my true love,
⁠who lies cloſe at my breaſt.
The joy and comfort of my life,
⁠when I go to my reſt.