Miscellaneous Bawdry, 
from Love and Drollery, comp. John Wardroper
New York: Barnes & Noble, 1969 (in UALR Library)

	On a Maid's Leg

Fair Beatrice tucked her coats up somewhat high,
Her pretty leg and foot that men might spy.
Quoth one: You have a handsome leg, sweet duck.
Yea, two (said she) or else I have ill luck.
They're two indeed, I think they're twins (quoth he).
They are and yet they are not, sir (quoth she).
Their birth was both at once, that I'll be sworn,
And yet betwixt them both a man was borne.

	A Riddle

Come pretty nymph, fain wou1d I know
What thing it is that breeds delight,
That strives to stand and cannot go,
And feeds the mouth that cannot bite.
It is a kind of pleasing thing,
A pricking and a piercing sting.
It is Venus' wanton wand.
It hath no legs and yet can stand.
A bachelor's button thoroughly ripe,
The kindest new tobacco-pipe.
It is the pen that Helen took
To write in her two-leaved book.
It's a prick-shaft of Cupid's cut,
Yet some do shoot it at a butt.
And every wench by her good will
Would keep it in her quiver still.
The fairest yet that e'er had life
For love of this became a wife.

	A Riddle

A lady once did ask me
This witty thing in privity:
Good sir, quoth she, fain would I crave
One thing which you yourself not have,
Nor never had yet in times past,
Nor never shall while life doth last,
And if you seek to find it out
You lose your labour, out of doubt.
Yet if you love me as you say
Then give it me, for sure you may.

	On Pricke, who died
in Christ's College in Cambridge

In a July moister than December
Christ's College lost a privy member.
Love and death their arrows did pick: .~.
Love hit the clout, but death hit the prick
And lecherous earth did ope her womb
Deceased Pricke for to entomb.
Widows lament and maidens make their moans,
For now the Pricke is laid beneath the stones.

	Here six foot deep

	Here six foot deep
	In his last sleep
The Lard of Lampas lies,
	Who his end made
	With his own blade
Between his mistress' thighs.

	If through that hole
	To heaven he stole,
I dare be bold to say
	He was the last
	Who that way passed
And first that found the way.

Upon John Dodd, a Great Swearer
Under this clod
Lies John Dodd:
Dead, by God.


	Underneath this stone

Underneath this stone and brick
Lies one that once loved well a prick.
All you that pass by, do her this honour:
Pull out your pintles and piss upon her.

	Stand statly Tavie out of the codpis rise

Stand statly Tavie out of the codpis rise
And dig a grave betwene thy Mrs thyges
Swift stand then stab till she replyes
Then gently weepe and after weeping dye
Stand Tavie and gaine thy creditt lost
Or by this hand ile never drawe thee but againe a post.

	On a Fart

As man, the winde that breeds the belly's pain,
'Tis born, it dyes, and nere returns again,
And lest 't should want a tomb of equall worth,
The nose doth bury what the nock brought forth.

	On an Arrant Whore

She was so exquisite a whore
That in the belly of her mother
She turned her _____ so right before
Her father _____ them both together,
And lest her sire should not thrust home
She frigged her father in her mother's womb.

	An Epitaph on a Whore

In this cold monument lies one
Which I know who hath lain upon
(The happier he), whose sight might charm
And touch might keep King David warm.
Lovely as is the dawning east
Was this marble's frozen guest;
As glorious and as bright as day,
As odoriferous as May,
As straight and slender as tbe crest
Or antler of the one-beamed beast;
Whom I admired as soon as knew,
And now her memory pursue
With such a superstitious lust
That I could fumble with her dust.
She all perfections had, and more;
Tempting, as if designed a whore.
For so she was, and some there are
Whores, I could wish them all as fair.
Courteous she was, and young, and wise,
And in her calling so precise
That industry had made her prove
The sucking school-mistress of love.
But death, ambitious to become 
Her pupil, left his ghastly home,
And seeing how we used her here,
The rawbone rascal ravished her;
Who, pretty soul, resigned her breath
To practise lechery with death.

	On Luce Morgan, a Common Whore: Epigram

Here lies black Luce, that Pick-hatch drab,
Who had a word for every stab,
Was lecherous as any sparrow,
Her quiver ope to every arrow.
Were't long or short or black or white
She would be sure to notch it right.
Were't lord's or knight's or priest's or squire's,
Of any sort except a friar's:
A friar's shaft she lacked alone,
Because in England here was none.
At last some vestal fire she stole
Which never went out in her hole,
And with that zealous fire being burned,
Unto the Romish faith she turned,
And therein died. And was't not fit
For a poor whore to die in it?

	The Wooing Rogue (The Tune is, My Freedom is all my Joy.)

Come live with me and be my Whore,
And we will beg from door to door,
Then under a hedge we'l sit and louse us,
Until the Beadle comes to rouse us.
And if they'l give us no relief,
Thou shalt turn Whore and 1'l turn Thief,
Thou shall turn Whore and 1'l turn Thief.

2. If thou canst rob, then I can steal,
And we'l eat Roast-meat every meal:
Nay we'l eat White-bread every day,
And throw our mouldy Crusts away,
And twice a day we will be drunk,
And then at night I'l kiss my Punk, 
And then at night I'l kiss my Punk.

3. And when we both shall have the Pox,
We then shall want both Shirts and Smocks,
To shift each others mangy hide,
That is with Itch so pockifi'd;
We'l take sone clean ones from a hedge,
And leave our old ones for a pledge,
And leave our old ones for a pledge.