A Fooles Bolt is soone shot.
Good Friends beware, I'me like to hit yee,
What ere you be heer's that will fit yee;
Which way soever that you goe,
At you I ayme my Bolt and Bowe.
To the Tune of, Oh no no no not yet.
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STand wide my Masters, and take heed,
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for feare the Foole doth hit yee,
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If that you thinke you shall be shot,
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Id'e wish you hence to get yee;
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My Bowe you see stands ready bent,
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to give each one their lot,
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Then have amongst you with my Bolts,
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for now I make a shot.
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He that doth take delight in Lawe,
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and ever to be brangling,
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Would he like to the Bells were hang'd,
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that loves still to be jangling;
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His Lawyers purse he fills with Coine,
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himselfe hath nothing got,
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And proves a begger at the last,
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at him I make a shot.
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Who all the weeke doth worke full hard,
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and moyle both night and day,
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Will in a trice spend all his coine,
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and foole his meanes away,
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In drinking and in rioting,
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at pipe and at the pot,
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Whose braines are like an adled egge,
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at him I make a shot.
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The Prodigall that is left rich,
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that wastes his state away,
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In wantones and surfeting,
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in gaming and in play,
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And spends his meanes on Whores and Queanes,
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doth make himselfe a sot,
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May in a Spittle chance to dye,
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at him I make a shot.
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He that is apt to come in bands
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for every common friend,
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May shake a begger by the hand,
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and pay the debt it'h end,
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By selling Goods and Lands away,
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or in a Prison rot,
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Where none will pitty his poore case,
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at him I make a shot.
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The Man that wedds for greedy wealth,
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he goes a fishing faire,
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But often times he gets a Frog,
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or very little share;
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And he that is both young and free,
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and marries an old Trot,
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When he might live at libertie,
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at him I make a shot.
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The Second Part. To the same Tune.
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THe Miser that gets wealth great store,
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and wretchedly doth live,
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In's life is like to starve himselfe,
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at's death he all doth give
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Unto some Prodigall, or Foole,
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that spends all he hath got,
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With griping usury and paine,
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at him I make a shot.
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He that doth early rise each morne,
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and worketh hard all day,
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When he comes home can not come in,
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his Wife is gone to play;
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And lets her to drinke and spend all
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the moneys which he got,
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Shall weare my Coxcombe and my Bell,
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and at him heers a shot.
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An Old-man for to dote in age
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upon a Wench thats young,
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Who hath a nimble wit and eye,
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with them a pleasing tongue,
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Acteons plume I greatly feare
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will fall unto his lot,
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That stoutely in his crest he'le beare,
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at him I make a shot.
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A Widow that is richly left,
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that will be Ladifide,
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And to some Gull or Roaring-boy
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she must be made a Bride,
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His Cloathes at Broakers he hath hir'd
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himselfe not worth a groat,
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That basts her hide and spends her meanes
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at her I make a shot.
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A Mayden that is faire, and rich,
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and young, yet is so proud,
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That favour unto honest men
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by no meanes can be low'd;
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And thus she spends her chiefest prime,
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refusing her good lot,
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In youth doth scorne in age is scornd,
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at her I make a shot.
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But she that wanton is and fond,
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that fast and loose will play,
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When that her reconings are cast up,
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must for it soundly pay,
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And may the Father chance to seeke
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of that which she hath got,
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Besides her standing in a sheete,
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at her I make a shot.
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Who spends his time in youth away,
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to be a Serving-man,
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Dotd seldome grow for to be rich,
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doe he the best he can;
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And then when age doth come, God knows
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this Man hath nothing got,
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But is turnd out amongst the dogges,
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at him I make a shot.
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He that doth sell his Lands away,
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an Office for to buy,
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May keepe a quarter for a time,
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but will a begger dye;
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For he hath sold his Lambes good man,
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and younger Sheepe hath got,
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Although he thinke himselfe so wise,
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at him I make a shot.
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He that will goe unto the Sea,
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and may live well on shore,
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Although he venture life and goods,
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may hap to come home poore,
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Or by the Foe be made a Slave,
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with all that he hath got,
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Whose Limbes in peeces are all torne,
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at him I make a shot.
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Those that their Parents doe reject,
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and makes of them a scorne,
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Who wishes then with griefe and woe
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they never had been borne;
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For portion they may Twelve-pence have
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beside a heavy lot,
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For disobedience ordaind,
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at them I make a shot.
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The Parents which their Child brings up
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to have their owne free will,
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The wise and antient Salomon
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doth say they them will spill:
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And when correction comes too late,
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they wish they'd nere been got:
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But for their folly which is past,
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at them I make a shot.
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They that continue still in sinne,
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and thinke they nere shall dye,
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Defereing off repentance still,
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and lives in jollitie,
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Death quickly comes and ceases them,
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and then it is their lot
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In hells hot flame for to remaine,
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at them I make a shot.
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And so farewell my Masters all,
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God send's a merry meeting;
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Pray be not angry with the Foole
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that thus to you sends greeting:
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And if that any have escap'd,
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and saies I did not hit them,
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It is because my Bolts are spent,
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but Ile have more to fit them.
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FINIS. T.F.
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