Womanhod, wanton, ye want!
Youre medelyng, mastres, is manerles;
Plente of yll, of goodnes skant,
Ye rayll at ryot, recheles.
To prayse youre porte it is nedeles;
For all your ‘Draffe’ yet and youre ‘Dreggys’,
As well borne as ye full oft tyme beggys.
Why so koy and full of skorne?
‘Myne horse is sold, I wene’, you say;
My new furryd gowne, when it is worne,
Put up youre purs, ye shall non pay!
By Crede, I trust to se the day,
As proud a pohen as ye sprede,
Of me and other ye may have nede.
Though angelyk be youre smylyng,
Yet is youre tong an adders tayle,
Full lyke a scorpyon styngyng
All those by whom ye have avayle:
Good mastres Anne, there ye do shayle!
What prate ye, praty pyggysny?
I truste to quyte you or I dy!
Youre key is mete for every lok,
Youre key is commen and hangyth owte;
Youre key is redy, we nede not knok,
Nor stand long wrestyng there aboute;
Of youre doregate ye have no doute:
But one thyng is, that ye be lewde!
Holde youre tong now, all beshrewde!
To mastres Anne, that farly swete,
That wonnes at the Key in Temmys strete.