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(From Merry Drollery, 1691)
MY Mistris is a shittle-cock, | |
| Composed of Cork and feather, | |
| Each Battledore sets on her dock, | |
| And bumps her on the leather: | |
| But cast her off which way you Will, | 5 |
| She will recoil to another still, Fa, la, la, la, la, la. | |
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| My Mistris is a Tennis-ball, | |
| Composed of Cotton fine; | |
| She is often struck against the wall, | |
| And banded under-line, | 10 |
| But if you will her mind fulfill, | |
| You must pop her in the hazard still, Fa, la, la. | |
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| My Mistris is a Nightingale | |
| So sweetly she can sing, | |
| She is as fair as Philomel, | 15 |
| The daughter of a King; | |
| And in the darksome nights so thick | |
| She loves to lean against a prick, Fa, la, la. | |
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| My Mistris is a Ship of war, | |
| With shot discharged at her | 20 |
| The Pope hath inferred many a scar | |
| Even both by wind and water; | |
| But as she grapples, at the last, | |
| She drowns the man, pulls down his mast, Fa, la, la. | |
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| My Mistris is a Virginal, | 25 |
| And little cost will string her: | |
| She’s often reared against the wall | |
| For every man to finger, | |
| But to say truth, if you will her please | |
| You must run division on her keys, Fa, la, la. | 30 |
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| My Mistris is a Conny fine, | |
| She’s of the softest skin, | |
| And if you please to open her, | |
| The best part lies within, | |
| And in her Conny-burrow may | 35 |
| Two Tumblers and a Ferrit play, Fa, la, la. | |
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| My Mistris is the Moon so bright: | |
| I wish that I could win her; | |
| She never walks but in the night, | |
| And bears a man within her, | 40 |
| Which on his back bears pricks and thorns; | |
| And once a month she brings him horns, Fa, la, la. | |
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| My Mistris is a Tinder-box, | |
| Would I had such a one; | |
| Her Steel endureth many a knock | 45 |
| Both by the flint and stone. | |
| And if you stir the Tinder much, | |
| The match will fire at every touch, Fa, la, la. | |
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| My Mistris is a Puritan, | |
| She will not swear an oath, | 50 |
| But for to lie with any man, | |
| She is not very loath; | |
| But pure to pure, and there’s no sin, | |
| There’s nothing lost that enters in, Fa, la, la. | |
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| But why should I my Mistris call, | 55 |
| A shittle-cock or bawble, | |
| A ship of war or Tennis-ball, | |
| Which things be variable? | |
| But to commend, I’ll say no more, | |
| My Mistris is an arrant whore, Fa, la, la, la, la, la. | 60 |
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