I don't expect any fiddle-faddle.

These foolish Mistresses do so hang about ye, So whimper, and so hug, I know it Gentlemen, And so intice ye, now ye are i'th' bud; And that sweet tilting war, with eyes and kisses, Th' alarms of soft vows, and sighs, and fiddle faddles, Spoils all our trade: you must forget these knick knacks, A woman at some time of year, I grant ye She is necessarie; but make no business of her.

Beneath the moon that shines so bright, Till she is tired, let Betty Foy With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle; But wherefore set upon a saddle Him whom she loves, her idiot boy?]