A Wench for a Weaver.
A Wench for a Weaver here you shall finde,
In defending his trade brought her to his minde.
To the tune of hang up my Shuttle
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The Weaver.
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IT chanced on a day,
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as I was walking,
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In the pleasant Month of May,
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with my Love talking:
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Most friendly arme in arme,
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the weather being warme,
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I swar[e] I thought no harme,
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as I am a weaver.
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The substance of my speech.
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as we were going,
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Was I did this maid beseech,
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my request in wooing
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Grant me thy love quoth he,
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or one sweet smile from thee,
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Say walking unto me,
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thou bonny weaver.
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The Maid.
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The Maiden then replide,
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sure you are but jesting,
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You needs must be denide,
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of your requesting.
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Without you can declare
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your wits then doe not spare,
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How Ile live out of care,
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you being a weaver.
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For the common speech is rife,
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that Ile implore
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To be a Weavers wife
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is to live poore.
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Then cleere but you this case,
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why a Weaver is counted base,
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Then you I will imbrace,
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none like a weaver.
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The Weaver.
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My owne true love and deare,
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since we came hither,
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These slanderous words Ile cleere,
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lets goe together.
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If the Barke from the Tree you pill,
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the root you needs must kill,
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So through husbands that are ill,
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disgract are weavers.
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Yet there are more as well as wee,
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that have disgraces,
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As you may plainly see
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in divers places.
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For the richest of you all,
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if your meanes begin to fall,
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Then your trades worse then all,
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as well as weavers.
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The Maid.
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Then I see tis poverty
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that breeds thy slander:
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Yet I have heard of thee
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thou hast beene Commander.
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Tho gone now are those dayes,
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and other beares the swayes,
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Yet thou hast had the praise
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none like a weaver.
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Seeing thou hast resolved me
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of what I asked:
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All the world plaine man see
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you are vainly taxed.
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Yet show me the ground of all,
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and how you first did fall.
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That I may speake of all,
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in praise of weavers.
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The second part. To the same tune.
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The Weaver.
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MY Love at thy request,
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thou shalt command me:
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For why I love thee best,
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then understand me.
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Fortune sometimes frownes,
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he raiseth and pulleth downe
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As well Cities as Townes,
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then why not weavers.
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Canning Street you know,
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where cloth is selling:
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Weavers have made like show
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in their houses dwelling.
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Tho they be gone and dead,
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and Drapers crept in stead,
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Yet I heard and read,
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there dwelt brave weavers.
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Jacke of Nuberie,
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tho he be dead and rotten,
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Of Weavers famde was he,
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he should not be forgotten.
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Two hundred and fifty loomes
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to maintaine he presumes,
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That honoreth now the tombes
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of worthy weavers.
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Cheapside amongst the rest
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shall not be forgotten,
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There are some that make jests,
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to see them broken.
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It is like-men that doe breake,
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they cannot hold they are so weake,
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And more would go to racke,
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were't not for weavers.
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Be not so proud in heart,
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although you flourish,
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Give Weavers due desart,
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for we doe them nourish.
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A Weaver they cannot want,
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if they should their hart would pan[e]
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And they would feele more want:
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then love a weaver.
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To write more then is my share
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I should be sorry:
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The truth I will not spare,
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I have read a story
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Of a Weaver that was a King,
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whose fame through the world did ring,
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Which makes me merily sing
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speake well of weavers.
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In those Golden dayes,
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weavers had pleasure:
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None like them then had prayse,
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they gained much treasure.
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Weaving did so excell,
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none like them did so well:
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Of all trades they bare the bell,
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speake well of weavers.
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If any offended be
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at this my writing,
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That no eloquence he see
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in my inditing:
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Pardon me for this time,
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though simply now I rime,
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For here I meane to clime
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in praise of weavers.
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Thus here I end my song,
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and eke my story,
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I hope I have done no wrong,
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if I have I am sorie.
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Then how sayst thou my Love,
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my constant hart then prove:
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From thee Ile never move.
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then love a Weaver.
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