The vvofull lamentation of William Purcas, vvho for murtherin [sic] his mother at Thaxted in Essex was executed at Chelmsford. To the tune of, The rich merchant.

The vvofull Lamentation of William Purcas, vvho for murtherin his Mother at Thaxted in Essex was executed at Chelmsford.

To the tune of, The rich Merchant.

[illustration]

THe Swan before her death, most pleasantly doth sing: But I a heavie hearted note with teares my hands doe wring, With teares my hands doe wring, yet not a teare for death; For I am weary of my life, desiring losse of breath.

No feares for death I shed, but for my sinnes I mourne; Oh, for that sin that makes me wish, I never had béen borne, I never had béen borne, mercy good Lord I crave: Oh would my mothers tender womb, had béen my timelesse grave.

Ah me, that very word strikes through my wounded heart, The name of Mother (oh my soule) doth aggravate my smart, Doth aggravate my smart, and much increase my woe, Ne'r villaine did so vile a déed as I have done, I know.

Oh now (alas) I know, but now (alas) too late, Drinke then depriv'd me of my sense, and of my humane state. Oh, that detested Vice is that we should detest, A thousand thousand times I curse, though once I lov'd it best.

Yea, once I lov'd it well, oh, too too well indéed: For that I did in drinke ore-gone, my woe-tyr'd soule doth bléed. For this foule spotted fault, my mother many a time Would gently chide me, & would wish me leave this loathed crime.

Shée'd tell me 'twas a sinne that many sinnes did feed, As swearing, whoring, and such like, and true she said indeed. With teares she oft did say, a wicked end 'twill have, Therefore my son doe thou take héed, take heed of it I crave.

With heavie heart she thus would seeme to turne my minde, But slightly Ide regard her words, which now too true I finde. Her Hony words to me more bitter were than gall; I tooke her for my foe, when she was most my friend of all.

Shée'd speake to me in love, I'de answer her in rage, Without all feare or reverence of title, or of age. Thus oft with words wée'd part, till good with bad I crost▪ But at the last, in drinking rage my wit and sense I lost.

Her words I would not heare, in rage I drew my knife, To take deare life away from her, by whom I had my life. The sight of which did make her heart much sorrow féele: (Then as I should have done to her) she unto me did knéele,

And on her knées did beg, that I her life would spare, And 'twere but for my soule, on which she pray'd me have a care: Oh spare me, sonne, she said, forget not who I am, Thy aged Mother doe not then thy eares against me dam.

Alas, how canst thou, sonne, endure to sée me knéele, And beg & wéep and wring my hands, and no compassion féele? For telling thée thy fault, and wishing thée to leave, I pray thée doe not desperately me of my life bereave.

Thus knéeling would she beg, and begging, weep apace; And weeping, she would wring her hands, in lamentable case. Yet nothing was I mov'd with all her piteous moane, My heart for her did féele no griefe, but was as hard as stone.

The second part.

To the same tune.

[illustration]

THus stubborne did I stand, against my Mother deare: This second Part, the bloody part, discoursed you shall heare.

Now, now, oh now againe, full heavily I sing; And in relation of my woe, both heart and hands I wring: For that I now shall tell, will draw forth brinish teares From any that have humane hearts, or my laments that heares.

Her kind intreats I crost, with bitter words and oathes, Such as the wicked love to heare, such as the vertuous loathes. And after all these wandring words, with Hels prepared knife, I quickly wounded her to death, from whom I had my life.

Vi••e Nero (I have read) his Mother ript to see The place where he an Embrion lay; O foule impietie! Yet none more vile than this, than this that I have done; Oh, never did there ever live so impious a sonne.

Cain branded was a Slave, for murthering of his Brother; Oh, what am I then, what am I, for murthering of my Mother? Aye me, my Mother ••eare, that bitter names did prove In bearing me, and ever since full dearely did me love.

Full dearely did me love, as any Mother could: And carefull was she still for me, as any Mother should. Her best in all she did, still working for my good: Yet all her paine and care I quit, with shedding of her blood.

With shedding of her blood, her kindnesse I did quit, By the Devill goaded on to do't, even in my drunken fit. All you that take delight in this abhorred Vice, The end of it come finde of me, and learne to be more wise.

This staines my soule as much as any sinne of seven, That blacks she soule, that we should keep most faire and fit for Heaven. So long is a man a man, as Reason he retaines: But Reason gone, he is no man, that shape's but little gaines.

If man be then no man, when Reason is away, Man is no man when he is drunke, for Drinke doth Reason sway. O, what's a Drunkard then, of Reason dispossest! As other creatures reasonlesse, he is a brutish Beast.

And thus by me take heed of Drunkennesse (I end.) O flie this Vice, and see what sinnes doe not this Vice attend. For that I did in drinke, now I am here to dye: Ten thousand deaths I have deserv'd▪ for this impietie.

Thus sorry for my sinne, I pray that all may mend: And Christ I pray receive my soule, after my shamefull end.

FINIS.