WOMANHOD, wanton, ye want ;
Youre medelyng, mastres, is manerles ;
Plente of yll, of goodnes skant,
Ye rayll at ryot, recheles :
To prayse youre porte it is nedeles ;
For all your draffe yet and youre dreggys,
As well borne as ye full oft tyme beggys.
Why so koy and full of skorne?
Myne horse is sold, I wene, you say ;
My new furryd gowne, when it is worne,
Put vp youre purs, ye shall non pay.
By crede, I trust to se the day,
As proud a pohen as ye sprede,
Of me and other ye may haue nede.
Though angelyk be youre smylyng,
Yet is youre tong an adders tayle,
Full lyke a scorpyon styngyng
All those by whom ye haue auayle :
Good mastres Anne, there ye do shayle :
What prate ye, praty pyggysny?
I truste to quyte you or I dy.
Youre key is mete for euery lok,
Youre key is commen and hangyth owte ;
Youre key is redy, we nede not knok,
Nor stand long wrestyng there aboute ;
Of youre doregate ye haue no doute :
But one thyng is, that ye be lewde :
Holde youre tong now, all beshrewde !
To mastres Anne, that farly swete,
That wonnes at the Key in Temmys strete.
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John Skelton
