The Poet Loves A Mistress, But Not To Marry.

I do not love to wed, Though I do like to woo; And for a maidenhead I'll beg and buy it too. I'll praise and I'll approve Those maids that never vary; And fervently I'll love, But yet I would not marry. I'll hug, I'll kiss, I'll play, And, cock-like, hens I'll tread, And sport it any way But in the bridal bed. For why? that man is poor Who hath but one of many, But crown'd he is with store That, single, may have any. Why then, say, what is he, To freedom so unknown, Who, having two or three, Will be content with one?