alack my damsel,
wearing darbies thou hast to go towards
the bough on the ol’ fayre,
harkening the claret corses that have gone afore,
sans ruth will be thy sepulture.
those fritter thy cloths, yon imbrue thou:
they are athirst of a public woman
and ravishing thou is their catholicity.
beshrew them! thou don’t bewray,
which ekes their dander, groan:
i have just begotten a child
and of a truth: the nurse is waiting without.
i will demean myself well
and repent my sins at the fane.
they though know it is feigned,
slain as kines slaughtered at the shambles and
eftsoons a soulless shell is flung on a tumbrel.