Womanhood, wanton, ye want:

Your meddling, mistress, is mannerless;

Plenty of ill, of goodness scant,

Ye rail at riot, reckless:

To praise your port it is needless;

For all your draff yet and your dregs,

As well borne as ye full oft time begs.

Why so coy and full of scorn?

Mine horse is sold, I ween, you say;

My new furrèd gown, when it is worn…

Put up your purse, ye shall not pay!

By crede, I trust to see the day,

As proud a pea-hen as ye spread,

Of me and other ye may have need!

Though angelic be your smiling,

Yet is your tongue an adder’s tail,

Full like a scorpion stinging

All those by whom ye have avail.

Good mistress Anne, there ye do shail:

What prate ye, pretty pigesnye?

I trust to ’quite you ere I die!

Your key is meet for every lock,

Your key is common and hangeth out;

Your key is ready, we need not knock,

Nor stand long wresting there about;

Of your door-gate ye have no doubt:

But one thing is, that ye be lewd:

Hold your tongue now, all beshrewd!

To mistress Anne, that farly sweet,

That wones at The Key in Thames Street.