And ne'er require them again.

Then come away, you wanton wives,
That love your pleasures as your lives:
To each good woman I'll give two,
Or more, if she think them too few.

Then would he change his note and sing this following, to the tune of _What
care I how fair she be?_[13]

Be she blacker than the stock,
If that thou wilt make her fair,
Put her in a cambric smock,
Buy her paint and flaxen hair.

One your carrier brings to town
Will put down your city-bred;
Put her on a broker's gown,
That will sell her maiden-head.

Comes your Spaniard, proud in mind,
He'll have the first cut, or else none:
The meek Italian comes behind,
And your Frenchman picks the bone.

Still she trades with Dutch and Scot,
Irish, and the German tall,
Till she gets the thing you wot;
Then her end's an hospital.