Page:The Elizabethan stage (Volume 2).pdf/441

All yow that please to understand,
  Come listen to my storye,
To see Death with his rakeing brand
  Mongst such an auditorye;
Regarding neither Cardinalls might,
Nor yett the rugged face of Henry the Eight.
    Oh sorrow, &c.

This fearfull fire beganne above,
  A wonder strange and true,
And to the stage-howse did remove,
  As round as taylors clewe;
And burnt downe both beame and snagg,
And did not spare the silken flagg.
    Oh sorrow, &c.

Out runne the knightes, out runne the lordes,
  And there was great adoe;
Some lost their hattes, and some their swordes;
  Then out runne Burbidge too;
The reprobates, though druncke on Munday,
Prayd for the Foole and Henry Condye.
    Oh sorrow, &c.

The perrywigges and drumme-heades frye,
  Like to a butter firkin;
A wofull burneing did betide
  To many a good buffe jerkin.
Then with swolne eyes, like druncken Flemminges,
Distressed stood old stuttering Heminges.
    Oh sorrow, &c.

No shower his raine did there downe force
  In all that Sunn-shine weather,
To save that great renowned howse;
  Nor thou, O ale-howse, neither.
Had itt begunne belowe, sans doubte,
Their wives for feare had pissed itt out.
    Oh sorrow, &c.

Bee warned, yow stage-strutters all,
  Least yow againe be catched,
And such a burneing doe befall,
  As to them whose howse was thatched;
Forbeare your whoreing, breeding biles,
And laye up that expence for tiles.
    Oh sorrow, &c.