Soft, moon light, spill forth the night.
Stream rippling veils of mystery.
Where tucked away, the insatiate act,
unrivaled in thy debauchery.
Whilst Lords and Gentry, by noble birth,
plot to cozen all gentle souls.
Their wives will scamper off to trysts,
showing morals that are beneath low.
Drunken bucks will gamble all,
bring low family coffers and names.
They will ruin many a young lass,
then run, from honor and bring shame.
And all the while, I am here.
A humble quill and my ink well.
Lying in wait to spread the ill.
For tis scandle I love to tell.