O Silly Love! O Cunning Love! An Old Maid To Trepan: I Cannot Go About My Work For Loving Of A Man. I Cannot Bake, I Cannot Brew, And, Do The Best I Can, I Burn The Bread And Chill The Mash, Through Loving Of A Man. Shrove Tuesday Last I Tried, And Tried, To Turn The Cakes In Pan, And Dropt The Batter On The Floor, Through Thinking Of A Man. My Mistress Screamed, My Master Swore, Boys Cursed Me In A Troop; The Cat Was All The Friends I Had, Who Helped To Clean It Up. Last Christmas Eve, From Off The Spit I Took The Goose To Table, Or Should Have Done, But Teasing Love Did Make Me Quite Unable; And Down Slipt Dish, And Goose, And All With Din And Clitter-Clatter; All But The Dog Fell Foul On Me; He Licked The Broken Platter. Although I'm Ten Years Past A Score, Too Old To Play The Fool, My Mistress Says I Must Give O'Er My Service For A School. Good Faith! What Must I Do, And Do, To Keep My Service Still; I'll Give The Winds My Thoughts To Love, Indeed And So I Will. And If The Wind My Love Should Lose, Right Foolish Were The Play, For I Should Mourn What I Had Lost, And Love Another Day. With Crosses And With Losses Right Double Were The Ill, So I'll E'En Bear With Love And All, Alack, And So I Will.