A new Ballad intituled, The Old mans complaint against his wretched sonne, who to advance his marriage, did undoe himselfe. To the tune of, Dainty come thou to me.
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ALl you that Fathers be,
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looke on my miserie,
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Let not affection fond
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worke your extremitie:
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For to advance my sonne
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in marriage wealthily
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I have my selfe undone,
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without alt remedie.
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I that was wont to live
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uncontrouled any way,
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With many checkes and taunts,
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I am grieved every day.
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Alacke and woe is me,
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I that might late command,
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Cannot have a bit of bread,
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but at my childrens hand,
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Whiles I was wont to sit
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chiefe at the Tables end,
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Now like a serving-slave,
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must I on them attend:
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I must not come in place,
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where their friends merry be
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Lest I should my sonne disgrace
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with my unreverencie:
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My coughing in the night,
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offends my daughter in law,
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My deafenesse and ill sight
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doth much disliking draw;
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Fye on this doting foole,
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this crooked churle quoth she.
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The chimney corner still
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must with me troubled be,
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I must rise from my chaire,
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to give my children place:
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I must speake servants faire,
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this is my wofull case.
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Unto their friends they tell,
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I must not say they lie,
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That [they] doe keepe me here:
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even [of meere] charitie.
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When I am sicke in bed,
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they will not come me [n]ye
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Each day they wish me dead,
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yet say Ile never die.
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O Lord and't be thy will,
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looke on my wofull case,
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No honest man before,
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ever tooke such disgrace,
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This was the old mans plaint
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everie night and day.
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With woe he waxed faint,
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but marke what I shall say.
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This rich and daintie paire,
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the young man and his wife,
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Though clog'd with golden coine
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yet led a grievous life.
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Seven yeers they married were
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and yet in all this space
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God gave them nere and heire,
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their riches to imbrace.
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Thus did their sorrow breed,
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joy was from them exil'd:
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Quoth she a hundred pound
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would I give for a child:
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To have a jolly child:
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of mine owne body borne;
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Full oft I am revil'd,
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of this my barren wombe.
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Much Physicke did she take,
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to make a fruitfull soyle,
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And with excesse thereof
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her body she did spoile.
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Full of griefe full of paine,
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full of ach grew she then,
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That she cryed out amaine,
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seeke me forth cunning men,
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That I my health may have,
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I will no money spare,
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But that which she did crave,
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fell never to her share.
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Alacke, alacke, she said,
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what torments live I in,
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How well are they apayd,
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that any case can win.
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So that I had my health,
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and from this paine were free,
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I would give all my wealth,
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that blessed joy to see.
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O that I had my health,
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though I were nere so poore,
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I car'd not though I went
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begging form doore to doore.
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Fye on that muck (quoth she)
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it cannot pleasure me,
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In this my wofull case
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and great extremitie.
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Thus liv'd she long in paine,
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all comfort from her fled,
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She strangled at the last
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her selfe within a bed.
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Her husband full of griefe,
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consuming wofully,
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His bodie pin'd away,
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suddenly he did die,
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Ere thirteene yeares were past,
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died he without a Will,
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And by this meanes at last,
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the old man living still.
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Enjoy'd his land againe
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after such miserie:
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Many yeares after that,
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lived he most happily,
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Farre richer than before,
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by this meanes was he knowne
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He helpt the sicke and sore,
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the poore man overthrowne:
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But this was all his song,
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let all men understand,
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Those Parents are accurst,
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live on their childrens hand.
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Finis.
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