BALLAD. (What naughty things we women are)

What naughty things we women are, Who long for fruit forbidden; Though 'twere our bane, we cannot bear The least thing from us hidden.

But what we see will we believe, Though ill on ill we're heaping, Though to this day, from mother Eve, We've always paid for peeping.

Thus curious girls, urg'd by their youth, Thoughtless what they were doing, Have falsehood found disguis'd like truth, And mask'd like pleasure, ruin.

Instead of smiling who must grieve, Whose joys are turn'd to weeping, And who too late, like mother Eve, Find they have paid for peeping.

Should I to my desires give way, I may encounter sorrow, And that I think a good to-day, May prove an ill to-morrow.

Yet, cautious prudence, by your leave, The secret's in my keeping; I am weak woman, and, like Eve, Cannot refrain from peeping.