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Poem by John Skelton
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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.
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