Good Sir, you wrong your Britches,
Pleasantly discoursed by a witty Youth, and a wily Wench.
To the tune of Oh no, no, no, not yet: Or, I'le never love thee more.
|
A Yong man and a Lasse of late,
|
within a Garden Ally,
|
As Cupid had commanded him,
|
began to court and dally:
|
She bade him have a speciall care,
|
he fell into no Ditches,
|
For so, (quoth she) the proverbe sayes,
|
good Sir, you'le wrong your Britches.
|
Thou art my onely dearest love,
|
the Yongman then replide:
|
I will buy thee a silken gowne,
|
a Petticoate beside,
|
A kirtle laid with silver Lace,
|
with gallant golden stitches.
|
In doing so, good Sir, (quoth she)
|
you well may wrong your Britches.
|
Wee'le walk about the Meddowes greene,
|
each Summer morning early.
|
Forbeare (quoth she) 'tis better farre,
|
amongst greene Pease and Barly.
|
Where if you will a peazing goe,
|
you must take up no Fitches:
|
Lest those that owe the Pescod field,
|
doe say you wrong your Britches.
|
I'le give thee all my Ewes and Lambs,
|
and Kine unto thy Dary.
|
To keepe the hornes your selfe (quoth she)
|
I hope you will be warie.
|
For they will serve you passing fit,
|
to be your hous-hold riches,
|
Where if you goe to borrow hornes,
|
you'le greatly wrong your Britches.
|
The Minstrell of our towne shall play
|
thee still thy mornings Dittie.
|
Good Sir (quoth she) I want rewards,
|
for one that is so wittie.
|
For when I heare your musicke sound,
|
my fingers alwaies itches,
|
To crowne you with a Fidlers fee:
|
you wrong (good Sir) your Britches.
|
Wee'le feede no more on Barly broth,
|
the Grape's a sweeter dyet.
|
Too deepe a taste (quoth she) will bring,
|
your bodie out of quiet,
|
And vex you with tormenting gripes,
|
of many rumbling stitches:
|
That you will be constrain'd (good Sir)
|
at last to wrong your Britches.
|
|
|
|
|
The Second part. To the same tune.
|
I'le fight, my Love, in thy defence,
|
my weapons at thy pleasure,
|
Whereat the wilie Wench replide,
|
I doubt you'le have no leasure.
|
And so you will a dastard prove,
|
when as the field he pitches:
|
And coming thence for feare away,
|
you much may wrong your Britches.
|
I am a lively Joviall Lad,
|
and for thy sake will swagger:
|
Untill the ground looke blue (my Wench)
|
my wit shall never stagger.
|
Take heed (quoth she) lest Midas Asse
|
your drowsie pate bewitches:
|
For being drunke, then with your Punke,
|
good Sir, you'le wrong your Britches.
|
A Pot and Pipe is all my life,
|
for this becomes a wooer:
|
Come, bonny Besse, let's coll and kisse,
|
I am no other dooer.
|
Hold off (quoth she) your hands are foule,
|
and all my cloathes bepitches;
|
For if you thus bemoyle your selfe,
|
you'le greatly wrong your Britches.
|
My dapple gray to beare thee hence,
|
shall soone be saddled finely:
|
To ride and runne for thee, my Love,
|
so thou wilt use me kindely.
|
But if you ride too fast (quoth she)
|
hee'le throw us into ditches:
|
And so shall I bemyer my selfe,
|
and you much wrong your Britches.
|
The Yongman at these wilely words,
|
in friendly manner smiled:
|
In that she had so cunningly,
|
his proffered love beguiled.
|
But yet at last she tooke of him,
|
himselfe and all his riches:
|
And would no more then scoffing say,
|
(Good Sir) you wrong your Britches.
|
Thus Cupid is a wiley Lad,
|
and well his Bow can handle:
|
To make yong Wenches light their lamps,
|
to burne by Venus Candle.
|
For I am now in love (quoth she)
|
this yong man me bewitches:
|
And I am vext that ere I said,
|
(Good Sir) you wrong your Britches.
|
|
|
|
|