Here, for the nonce,
Came Thomas Jonce,
In St. Giles church to lye.
None Welsh before,
None Welshman more,
Till Shon Clerk die.
I’ll tole the bell,
I’ll ring his knell;
He died well,
He’s sav’d from hell;
And so farwel
Tom Jonce.
TO THE LADYES OF THE NEW DRESSE, THAT WEARE THEIR GORGETS AND RAYLES
DOWNE TO THEIR WASTES.
Ladyes, that weare black cipress-vailes
Turn’d lately to white linnen-rayles,
And to your girdle weare your bands,
And shew your armes instead of hands;
What can you doe in Lent so meet
As, fittest dress, to weare a sheet?
’Twas once a band, ’tis now a cloake,
An acorne one day proves an oke:
Weare but your linnen to your feet,
And then your band will prove a sheet.
By which devise, and wise excesse,
You’l doe your penance in a dresse;
And none shall know, by what they see,
Which lady’s censur’d, and which free.