Fond woman which would'st have thy husband die, 
And yet complain'st of his great jealousie; 
If swolne with poyson, hee lay in'his last bed, 
His body with a sere-barke covered, 
Drawing his breath, as thick and short, as can 
The nimblest crocheting Musitian, 
Ready with loathsome vomiting to spue 
His Soule out of one hell, into a new, 
Made deafe with his poore kindreds howling cries, 
Begging with few feign'd teares, great legacies, 
Thou would'st not weepe, but jolly, 'and frolicke bee, 
As a slave, which to morrow should be free, 
Yet weep'st thou, when thou seest him hungerly 
Swallow his owne death, hearts-bane jealousie. 
O give him many thanks, he'is courteous, 
That in suspecting kindly warneth us. 
Wee must not, as wee us'd, flout openly, 
In scoffing ridles, his deformitie; 
Nor at his boord together being satt, 
With words, nor touch, scarce lookes adulterate. 
Nor when he swolne, and pamper'd with great fare 
Sits downe, and snorts, cag'd in his basket chaire, 
Must wee usurpe his owne bed any more, 
Nor kisse and play in his house, as before. 
Now I see many dangers; for it is 
His realme, his castle, and his diocesse. 
But if, as envious men, which would revile 
Their Prince, or coyne his gold, themselves exile 
Into another countrie, 'and doe it there, 
Wee play'in another house, what should we feare? 
There we will scorne his houshold policies, 
His seely plots, and pensionary spies, 
As the inhabitants of Thames right side 
Do Londons Major, or Germans, the Popes pride.