The mother of invention

In the past, when a woman was wed,
She’d be later escorted to bed,
And the stained wedding sheet
Would be hung in the street,
As a proof she was virgin, and bled.

Though all knew the bride’s blood must be shed
Many brides, I suspect, and it’s said,
Fooled their husbands, of course,
With some raspberry sauce,
Or some wine, or most anything red.