Womanhod, wanton, ye want

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.