A GIRL, who has so many wilful ways She would have caused Job's patience to forsake him; Yet is so rich in all that's girlhood's praise, Did Job himself upon her goodness gaze, A little better she would surely make him. Yet is this girl I sing in naught uncommon, And very far from angel yet, I trow. Her faults, her sweetness, are purely human; Yet she's more lovable as simple woman Than any one diviner that I know. Therefore I wish that she may safely keep This womanhede, and change not, only grow: From maid to matron, youth to age, may creep, And in perennial blessedness, still reap On every hand of that which she doth sow. |