His tongue that had false-sworn so oft
To compass his desire,

Within his mouth doth glow and burn
Like coals of sparkling fire.

And thus in torment in his sin
This wicked caitiff died,
Whose hateful carcase after death
In earth could not abide.

But in the maws of carrion crows,
And ravens made a tomb,
A vengeance just on those that use
On such vile sins presume.

For widows' curses have full oft
Been felt by mortal wights,
And for oppressed widows wrongs

Still heavenly angels fight.

For when King Henry the Sixth by force
Was murdered in the tower,
And his fair queen a widow made

By crook-back'd Richard's power,

She so exclaimed to the heavens,
For to revenge that deed,
That they might die in such like sort,
Which caused him to bleed.

Her curses so prevale, God wir
That every one was stain,
Or murder'd by like cruel baut,
Not one there did remain.

Both crook-back'd Richard and his mates
Lord Lovel and Buckingham,
With many more, did feel her curst,
Which needless are to name.

For widows' wrong spierce the pane
Of God's celestial throne,

And heaven itself will still revenge
Oppressed widows ILURE.

Take heed, take beed, you wanL FOUL,
Take heed by this misuap,

Lest for your lust and lechery,
You be caught in a trap.

Leave off your foul abuses,

You shew to maids and wires, And by this wanton merchant's fall, Learn how to mend your lives.

Becomes it thee to triumph so?
Thy mother wills it not :
For she had rather break thy bow,
Than thou should'st play the sot.

What saucy merchant speaketh now,
Said Venus in her rage,

Art thou so blind thou knowest not how

My son doth shoot no shaft in waste,

To me the boy is bound,

He never found a heart so chaste,
But he had power to wound.

Not so, fair Goddess, quoth Free-will,
In me there is a choice;
And cause I am of mine own ill,

If I in thee rejoice.

And when I yield myself a slave

To thee, or to thy son,

Such recompence I ought not have,

If things be rightly done.

Why, fool, stept forth Delight, and said, When thou art conquer'd thus,

Then lo dame Lust, that wanton maid,' Thy mistress is I wus:

And Lust is Cupid's darling dear,
Behold her where she goes!

She creeps the milk-warm flesh so near,
She hides her under close.

Where many privy thoughts do dwell,

A heaven here on earth,

For they have never mind of hell,
They think so much on mirth.

Be still, Good-meaning, quoth Good-sport, Let Cupid triumph make,

For sure his kingdom shall be short,

If we no pleasure take.

Fair Beauty, and her Play-feres gay,
The Virgins-vestal too

Shall sit, and with their fingers play,
As idle people do.

If Honest-meaning fall to frown,
· And I, Good-sport, decay
Then Venus' glory will come down,
And they will pine away.

Indeed, quoth Wit, this your device
With strangeness must be wrought,
And, where you see these women nice,
And looking to be sought,