Tush ! Never tell me I'm too young
For loving, or too green;
She stays at least seven years too long
That's wedded at eighteen.
Lambs bring forth lambs and doves bring doves
As soon as they're begotten,
Then why should ladies linger loves
As if not ripe till rotten ?
Grey hairs are fitter for the grave
Than for the bridal bed;
What pleasure can a lover have
In a withered maidenhead ?
Nature's exalted in our time
And what our Grandmams then
At four and twenty scarce could climb
We can arrive at ten.