A
DIALOGUE
BETWEEN
A Baker and his Wife, living near Lambath Mash,
in Lambeth Parish, in the County of Surry: Being a new
Song by the old Tune of, Hey Boys up go we.
Licens'd and Enter'd according to Order.
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WHere have you been, you drunken Dog,
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where have you been to day?
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For every fault you do commit,
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you shall severely pay:
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I'll tear your throat, i ll hang your bones,
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that you shall quickly see,
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Before that ever you shall play,
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at hey Boys up go we.
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My dearest dear, the Breeches take,
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for all I have is thine;
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Go out among thy Gossips love,
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drink Beer, or Ale, or Wine,
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Hot Potts or any thing you please,
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so I may quiet be;
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And come and let us play in Bed,
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at hey Boys up go we.
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A curse upon your plaguey Face,
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I wish that thou were dead;
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Nay, if thou live assuredly,
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I will cornute thy Head:
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You drunken Dog when you are out,
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if you'll not better be;
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With another I will have about
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at hey Boys up go we.
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Upon my bended knees my Dear,
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thy Pardon I do beg;
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I never will forsake thy Bed,
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While I can lift a Legg;
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My Love, it was, the Taylor's fault,
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it's he hath ruin'd me;
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Come my dear Love let's have a game,
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[a]t hey Boys up go we.
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You Dog I'll stamp upon your Gutts,
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I'll end your wretched Life;
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Was ever Churl so bad as thee,
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unto so good a Wife:
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Now it is time to praise myself
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none else will do it I see;
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You Rogue you shall not have one bit,
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of hey Boys up go we.
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Dear Love, be but reconcil'd,
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this once my Love to mee;
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And I will never more offend,
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to such a high degree;
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The Taylor's company I'll leave,
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for he has ruin'd me:
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Come Love let's have a little touch,
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at hey Boys up go we.
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Thou toothless Fool, thou Drunken Sot,
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thou foolish silly Ass;
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I'll drive thee in the Fields to feed,
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with Bulls that live on Grass;
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Go fumble like a fumbling Fool,
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go get thee gone from me,
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For thou shalt not so much as feel,
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my hey Boys up go we.
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O wretched Man! What shall I do?
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where shall I hide my Head?
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I am a weary of my Life,
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I wish that I was Dead;
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See how the Tears do trickle down,
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behold dear Wife and see,
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How I am in a piteous Case,
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for hey Boys up go we.
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Well, if you'll promise to be good,
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and will the Dishes wash,
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And mind to feed the Poultery
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this fault I by will pass:
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My little, silly, pritty, Cock,
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be thou but rul'd by me,
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And I'll give thee thy Belly full,
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of hey Boys up go we.
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By thy Smock-tail I'll swear my Love,
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I n'er will do amiss,
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And to confirm the same, my Dear,
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the Book I'll freely kiss;
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All Company I will forsake,
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and go to Bed with thee,
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Where I will please my love,
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with hey Boys up go we.
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