A Yorkshire Tragedy.
Mother by her aslepe.
M. Sleep sweet babe sorrow makes thy mother sleep,
It boades small good when heauinesse fals so deepe,
Hush pretty boy, thy hopes might haue bene better,
Tis lost at Dice, what ancient honour won,
Hard when the father plaies away the Sonne:
Nothing but misery serues in this house,
Ruine and desolation; oh.
M. Sleep sweet babe sorrow makes thy mother sleep,
It boades small good when heauinesse fals so deepe,
Hush pretty boy, thy hopes might haue bene better,
Tis lost at Dice, what ancient honour won,
Hard when the father plaies away the Sonne:
Nothing but misery serues in this house,
Ruine and desolation; oh.
Enter Husband with the boy bleeding.
Hus. Whore, giue me that boy.
Striues with her for the child.
Striues with her for the child.
Maid. Oh helpe, helpe, out alas, murder, murder.
Hus. Are you gossiping, prating sturdy queane,
Ile breake your clamour with your necke,
Downe staires; tumble, tumble, headlong,
He throwes her downe.
So, the surest way to charme a womans tongue,
Is breake her necke, a Politician did it.
Ile breake your clamour with your necke,
Downe staires; tumble, tumble, headlong,
He throwes her downe.
So, the surest way to charme a womans tongue,
Is breake her necke, a Politician did it.
Son. Mother, mother, I am kild mother.
His wife awakes, and catcheth up the youngest.
Wife. Ha, who's that cride? Oh me my children,
Both, both, both; bloudy, bloudy.
Both, both, both; bloudy, bloudy.
Hus. Strumpet, let go the boy, let go the beggar.
Wife. Oh my sweete husband.
Hus. Filth, harlot.
Wife. Oh what will you do deere husband?
Hus. Giue me the bastard.
Wife. Your owne sweete boy.
Hus. There are too many beggars.
Wife.
