Who was it chose that gray monk if not you? Well then a prelate

Now is my lover--Ah, who is my prelate but you?

Never, incredible as it may sound in this clerical city,

Has any cleric brought me--swear it I will--to his bed.

I was sufficiently poor, sad to say. I was young. The seducers

Noted it well. Falconier ogled me often enough.

One of the pimps for Albani with billets doux very impressive

Called me to Ostia once. Quattro Fontani next time.

Who was it did not appear there? Why, who but the very same girl who

Hated with all of her heart stockings both violet and red.

For: 'In the end you poor girls are the ones who are sure to be cheated.'

So said my father although--Mother was not much impressed.

Father was right. Here I stand in the end being cheated and scolded.

You don't believe your own words. They're your excuse to escape.

Go, then. Unworthy of women are men. We, who carry your children