Now sitt thee downe, Melpomene,Wrapt in a sea-coal robe,And tell the dolefull tragedie,That late was playd at Globe;For noe man that can singe and sayeBut was scard on St. Peters Daye.Oh sorrow, pittifull sorrow, and yett all this is true.
All yow that please to understand,Come listen to my storye,To see Death with his rakeing brandMongst 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 woefull burneing did betideTo 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 forceIn 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.
Goe drawe yow a petition,And doe yow not abhorr itt,And gett, with low submission,A licence to begg for ittIn churches, sans churchwardens checkes,In Surrey and in Midlesex.Oh sorrow, pittifull sorrow, and yett all this is true.
