The wofull Lamentation of William Purcas, who for murtherin
his Mother at Thaxted in Essex was executed at Chelmsford.
To the tune of, The rich Merchant.
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THe Swan before her death,
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most pleasantly doth sing:
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But I a heavie hearted note
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with teares my hands doe wring,
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With teares my hands doe wring,
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yet not a teare for death;
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For I am weary of my life,
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desiring losse of breath.
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No teares for death I shed,
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but for my sinnes I mourne;
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Oh, for that sin that makes me wish,
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I never had been borne,
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I never had been borne,
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mercy good Lord I crave:
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Oh would my mothers tender womb,
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had been my timelesse grave.
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Ah me, that very word
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strikes through my wounded heart,
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The name of Mother (oh my soule)
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doth aggravate my smart,
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Doth aggravate my smart,
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and much increase my woe,
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Ner villaine did so vile a deed
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as I have done, I know.
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Oh now (alas) I know,
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but now (alas) too late,
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Drinke then deprivd me of my sense,
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and of my humane state.
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Oh, that detested Vice
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is that we should detest,
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A thousand thousand times I curse,
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though once I lovd it best.
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Yea, once I lovd it well,
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oh, too too well indeed:
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For that I did in drinke ore-gone,
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my woe-tyrd soule doth bleed.
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For this foule spotted fault,
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my mother many a time
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Would gently chide me, & would wish
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me leave this loathed crime.
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Sheed tell me twas a sinne
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that many sinnes did feed,
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As swearing, whoring, and such like,
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and true she said indeed.
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With teares she oft did say,
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a wicked end twill have,
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Therefore my son doe thou take heed,
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take heed of it I crave.
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With heavie heart she thus
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would seeme to turne my minde,
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But slightly Ide regard her words,
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which now too true I finde.
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Her Hony words to me
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more bitter were than gall;
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I tooke her for my foe, when she
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was most my friend of all.
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Sheed speake to me in love,
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Ide answer her in rage,
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Without all feare or reverence
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of title, or of age.
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Thus oft with words weed part,
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till good with bad I crost;
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But at the last, in drinking rage
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my wit and sense I lost.
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Her words I would not heare,
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in rage I drew my knife,
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To take deare life away from her,
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by whom I had my life.
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The sight of which did make
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her heart much sorrow feele:
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(Then as I should have done to her)
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she unto me did kneele,
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And on her knees did beg,
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that I her life would spare,
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And twere but for my soule, on whic[h]
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she prayd me have a care:
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Oh spare me, sonne, she said,
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forget not who I am,
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Thy aged Mother doe not then
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thy eares against me dam.
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Alas, how canst thou, sonne;
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endure to see me kneele,
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And beg & weep and wring my hands,
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and no compassion feele?
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For telling thee thy fault,
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and wishing thee to leave,
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I pray thee doe not desperately
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me of my life bereave.
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Thus kneeling would she beg,
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and begging, weep apace;
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And weeping, she would wring her hands,
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in lamentable case.
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Yet nothing was I movd
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with all her piteous moane,
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My heart for her did feele no griefe,
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but was as hard as stone.
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The second part. To the same tune.
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THus stubborne did I stand,
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against my Mother deare:
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This second Part; the bloody part,
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discoursed you shall heare.
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Now, now, oh now againe,
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full heavily I sing;
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And in relation of my woe,
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both heart and hands I wring:
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For that I now shall tell,
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will draw forth brinish teares
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From any that have humane hearts,
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or my laments that heares.
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Her kind intreats I crost,
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with bitter words and oathes,
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Such as the wicked love to heare,
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such as the vertuous loathes.
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And after all these wandring words,
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with Hels prepared knife,
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I quickly wounded her to death,
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from whom I had my life.
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Vi[l]e Nero (I have read)
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his Mother ript to see
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The place where he an Embrion lay;
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O foule impietie!
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Yet none more vile than this,
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than this that I have done;
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Oh, never did there ever live
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so impious a sonne.
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Cain branded was a Slave,
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for murthering of his Brother;
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Oh, what am I then, what am I,
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for murthering of my Mother?
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Aye me, my Mother deare,
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that bitter paines did prove
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In bearing me, and ever since
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full dearely did me love.
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Full dearely did me love,
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as any Mother could:
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And carefull was she still for me,
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as any Mother should.
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Her best in all she did,
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still working for my good:
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Yet all her paine and care I quit,
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with shedding of her blood.
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With shedding of her blood,
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her kindnesse I did quit,
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By the Devill goaded on to dot,
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even in my drunken fit.
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All you that take delight
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in this abhorred Vice,
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The end of it come finde of me,
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and learne to be more wise.
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This staines my soule as much
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as any sinne of seven,
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That blacks the soule, that we should keep
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most faire and fit for Heaven,
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So long is a man a man,
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as Reason he retaines:
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But Reason gone, he is no man,
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that shapes but little gaines.
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If man be then no man,
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when Reason is away,
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Man is no man when he is drunke,
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for Drinke doth Reason sway.
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O, whats a Drunkard then,
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of Reason dispossest!
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As other creatures reasonlesse,
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he is a brutish Beast.
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And thus by me take heed
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of Drunkennesse (I end.)
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O flie this Vice, and see what sinnes
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doe not this Vice attend.
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For that I did in drinke,
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now I am here to dye:
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Ten thousand deaths I have deservd
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for this impietie.
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Thus sorry for my sinne,
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I pray that all may mend:
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And Christ I pray receive my soule
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after my shamefull end.
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