A Riddle

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My pretty maid, fain would I know
What thing it is 'twill breed delight;
That strives to stand, that cannot go,
That feeds the mouth that cannot bite.

With a humbledum, grumbledum, humbledum, hey -
Humbledum, grumbledum, humbledum, hey!

It is a pretty pricking thing,
A pleasing and a standing thing;
It was the truncheon Mars did use,
A bedward bit that maidens choose.

It is a friar with a bald head,
A staff to beat a cuckold dead;
It is a gun that shoots point-blank,
It hits betwixt a maiden's flank.

It is a shaft of Cupid's cut,
'Twill serve to rove, to prick, to butt;
'Twas ne'er a maid but by her will
Will keep it in her quiver still.

It has a head much like a mole's
And yet it loves to creep in holes
The fairest maid that e'er took life
For love of this became a wife.

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