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Youre vgly tokyn

My mynd hath brokyn

From worldly lust;

For I haue dyscust

We ar but dust,

And dy we must.

It is generall

To be mortall:

I haue well espyde

No man may hym hyde 10

From Deth holow eyed,

With synnews wyderyd,

With bonys shyderyd,

With hys worme etyn maw,

And his gastly jaw

Gaspyng asyde,

Nakyd of hyde,

Neyther flesh nor[222] fell.

Then, by my councell,

Loke that ye spell 20

Well thys gospell:

For wher so we dwell

Deth wyll us qwell,

And with us mell.

For all oure pamperde paunchys,

Ther may no fraunchys,

Nor worldly blys,

Redeme vs from this:

Oure days be datyd,

To be chekmatyd 30

With drawttys of deth,

Stoppyng oure breth;

Oure eyen synkyng,

Oure bodys stynkyng,

Oure gummys grynnyng,

Oure soulys brynnyng.

To whom, then, shall we sew,

For to haue rescew,

But to swete Jesu,

On vs then for to rew? 40

O goodly chyld

Of Mary mylde,

Then be oure shylde!

That we be not exyld[223]

To the dyne dale

Of boteles[224] bale,

Nor to the lake

Of fendys blake.

But graunt vs grace

To se thy face, 50

And to purchace

Thyne heuenly place,

And thy palace,

Full of solace,

Aboue the sky,

That is so hy;

Eternally

To beholde and se

The Trynyte!

Amen. 60

Myrres vous y.

[222] nor] Marshe’s ed. “not.”

[223] exyld] So Marshe’s ed. Pynson’s ed. “exylyd.”

[224] boteles] Marshe’s ed. “botemles.”

Womanhod, wanton, ye want;

Youre medelyng, mastres, is manerles;

Plente of yll, of goodnes skant,

Ye rayll at ryot, recheles:

To prayse youre porte it is nedeles;

For all your draffe yet and youre dreggys,

As well borne as ye full oft tyme beggys.

Why so koy and full of skorne?

Myne horse is sold, I wene, you say;

My new furryd gowne, when it is worne, 10

Put vp youre purs, ye shall non pay.

By crede, I trust to se the day,

As proud a pohen as ye sprede,

Of me and other ye may haue nede.

Though angelyk be youre smylyng,

Yet is youre tong an adders tayle,

Full lyke a scorpyon styngyng

All those by whom ye haue auayle:

Good mastres Anne, there ye do shayle:

What prate ye, praty pyggysny? 20

I truste to quyte you or I dy.

Youre key is mete for euery lok,

Youre key is commen and hangyth owte;

Youre key is redy, we nede not knok,

Nor stand long wrestyng there aboute;

Of youre doregate ye haue no doute:

But one thyng is, that ye be lewde:

Holde youre tong now, all beshrewde!

To mastres Anne, that farly swete,

That wonnes at the Key in Temmys strete. 30