A Pitiful Lamentation
My Mother hath sold away her Cock
And all her brood of Chickins,
And hath bought her a new canvasse smock
And righted up the Kitchin.
And has brought me a Lockeram bond
With a v’lopping paire of breeches,
Thinking that Jone would have lov’d me alone,
But she hath serv’d me such yfiches.
Ise take a rope and drowne my selfe,
Ere Ist indure these losses:
Ise take a hatchet and hang my selfe
Ere Ist indure these crosses.
Or else Ile go to some beacon high,
Made of some good dry’d furzon[,]
And there Ile seeme in love to fry
Sing hoodle a doodle Cuddon.