The fyfth sorowe.
THe fyfth sorowe is very dolorous
As he is buried and the wyfe in hous
Alone is left, and al her neyghbours gone
Styl museth she than makyng great mone
Sayng, wo is me thys tyme for to se
Now must I both husband, and wyfe be
Yet what of that I may take such sorow
Parauenture to dye or tomorowe
Nay let it be, for I wyl take no thought
Sorow wyl ryght soone bryng me to nought
Now syth he be gon, wel what remedy
Other be wyddwes as wel as I
Than sytteth she sadly downe on the benche
What Ione I say, and called her wenche
Come hyther Ione to me is your hous drest:
I pray god gyue all chrysten soules good rest
And w i t h her knyfe bytwene her fyngers two
She dalieth, waggyng it to and fro
With dydle dydle dydle, tyrle tyrle tyrle
The brayne renneth and ther of no ferle
As in suche a case, and than wyl requyre
O sorowe great, more hote than the fyre
Now is thys woman in greate fantasy
And no maruayle, yet hathe she no couse whi
For haply he was vn to her vnkynde
But for al that as clene out of her mynd
Of womanhed, and eke of here kyndnes
She dothe forget hys waywerde folyshnes
And doth performe the tenour of hys wyl
And is in purpose hys mynd to fulfyl
Remembrynge greatly how the pore soule is
In great peryl, yf he haue left ought amysse
And than a gayne her owne selfe for to chere
Her mayde she calleth as I dyd saye ere
Com hyther Ione and goo on my arande
Goo and desire my gossyp Coplande
My gosseyp Miles, and my gossip Susan
My gossip Stodarde, and my neybour An
The good wyfe Rychardson, and the good wyfe Gayes.
And to Peters wyfe, and pray them streyght wayes
To do so moch as to come speke with me
And whan thou hast done loke that thou hie the
And take a pot and go to saint Iohans heade
For a quart of Muscadel and newe bread
A couple of bounes or maunchettes newe bake
For I promyse thee / my hert doth ake
Anone maystresse sayth she as a good damsell
And douth her message right fayre and well
And whan the gossyppes assembled be
What chere goode gossyp, than sayeth she and she
Be ye of good chere, and thanke god of all
This worlde ye se, doth tourne lyke as a ball
Now vp, and now downe, now to and now fro
Now myrth than Ioye, nowe care and than wo
A good man, god haue mercy on thy soule
By my trouth whan I dyd her the bell tole
My hert erned and I shall tell you why
Ah good man thou speke ful meryly
Thys day seuen nyght and now thou art ful lowe
Now by my faythe in al this strete I trowe
Is not his felow in euery degree
By my sowle yf ye wyll beleue me
I trowe he wyll neuer out of my mynde
Surly gossyp he was euer kynde
A Iesu howe he woulde you prayes
His mynde was so occupyed alwayes
On this worlde, in his myrth and his game
I harde hym neuer no man defame
Ah gossyp, gossyp sayth thys wydow than
Though I say it he was an honest man
He left me so to dryue the wat a way
That I am bounde for hym dayly to pray
For by thys syluere and wyne in this cuppe
And there with she made a soppe
Saynge gossyppes my hert is so sore
That I care not whyche ende doth go a fore
And therewyth putteth it in to her mouthe
And swere by hym that dyed in the southe
There was neuer sorow, wo nor smerte
That euer dyd go more nerer my herte
Alacke good woman, take it not so heuyly
Sayth her gossyppes, lest that ye dye
Now he is gone, there is no better reede
Thus this wydowe they comfort euery day
The best they can, to dryue her care a way
THe fyfth sorowe is very dolorous
As he is buried and the wyfe in hous
Alone is left, and al her neyghbours gone
Styl museth she than makyng great mone
Sayng, wo is me thys tyme for to se
Now must I both husband, and wyfe be
Yet what of that I may take such sorow
Parauenture to dye or tomorowe
Nay let it be, for I wyl take no thought
Sorow wyl ryght soone bryng me to nought
Now syth he be gon, wel what remedy
Other be wyddwes as wel as I
Than sytteth she sadly downe on the benche
What Ione I say, and called her wenche
Come hyther Ione to me is your hous drest:
I pray god gyue all chrysten soules good rest
And w i t h her knyfe bytwene her fyngers two
She dalieth, waggyng it to and fro
With dydle dydle dydle, tyrle tyrle tyrle
The brayne renneth and ther of no ferle
As in suche a case, and than wyl requyre
O sorowe great, more hote than the fyre
Now is thys woman in greate fantasy
And no maruayle, yet hathe she no couse whi
For haply he was vn to her vnkynde
But for al that as clene out of her mynd
Of womanhed, and eke of here kyndnes
She dothe forget hys waywerde folyshnes
And doth performe the tenour of hys wyl
And is in purpose hys mynd to fulfyl
Remembrynge greatly how the pore soule is
In great peryl, yf he haue left ought amysse
And than a gayne her owne selfe for to chere
Her mayde she calleth as I dyd saye ere
Com hyther Ione and goo on my arande
Goo and desire my gossyp Coplande
My gosseyp Miles, and my gossip Susan
My gossip Stodarde, and my neybour An
The good wyfe Rychardson, and the good wyfe Gayes.
And to Peters wyfe, and pray them streyght wayes
To do so moch as to come speke with me
And whan thou hast done loke that thou hie the
And take a pot and go to saint Iohans heade
For a quart of Muscadel and newe bread
A couple of bounes or maunchettes newe bake
For I promyse thee / my hert doth ake
Anone maystresse sayth she as a good damsell
And douth her message right fayre and well
And whan the gossyppes assembled be
What chere goode gossyp, than sayeth she and she
Be ye of good chere, and thanke god of all
This worlde ye se, doth tourne lyke as a ball
Now vp, and now downe, now to and now fro
Now myrth than Ioye, nowe care and than wo
A good man, god haue mercy on thy soule
By my trouth whan I dyd her the bell tole
My hert erned and I shall tell you why
Ah good man thou speke ful meryly
Thys day seuen nyght and now thou art ful lowe
Now by my faythe in al this strete I trowe
Is not his felow in euery degree
By my sowle yf ye wyll beleue me
I trowe he wyll neuer out of my mynde
Surly gossyp he was euer kynde
A Iesu howe he woulde you prayes
His mynde was so occupyed alwayes
On this worlde, in his myrth and his game
I harde hym neuer no man defame
Ah gossyp, gossyp sayth thys wydow than
Though I say it he was an honest man
He left me so to dryue the wat a way
That I am bounde for hym dayly to pray
For by thys syluere and wyne in this cuppe
And there with she made a soppe
Saynge gossyppes my hert is so sore
That I care not whyche ende doth go a fore
And therewyth putteth it in to her mouthe
And swere by hym that dyed in the southe
There was neuer sorow, wo nor smerte
That euer dyd go more nerer my herte
Alacke good woman, take it not so heuyly
Sayth her gossyppes, lest that ye dye
Now he is gone, there is no better reede
Thus this wydowe they comfort euery day
The best they can, to dryue her care a way