text: 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 furred 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 adders 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.
   