'Las, how long shall I
And my maidenhead lie
In a cold bed all the night long?
I cannot abide it,
Yet away cannot chide it,
Though I find it does me some wrong.

Can any one tell
Where this fine thing does dwell,
That carries nor form nor fashion?
It both heats and cools,
'Tis a bauble for fools,
Yet catched at in every nation.

Say a maid were so crossed
As to see this toy lost,
Cannot hue and cry fetch it again?
'Las, no, for 'tis driven
Nor to hell nor to heaven;
When 'tis found, 'tis lost even then.