A Fools Bolt is soon shot.  
Good Friends beware, I'm like to hit ye,  
What ere you be here's that will fit ye;  
Which way soever that you go,  
At you I aim my Bolt and Bowe.  
To the Tune of, Oh no no no not yet.  
 

STand wide my Masters, and take heed,  
for fear the Fool doth hit ye,  
If that you think you shall be shot,  
I'd wish you hence to get ye;  
My Bow you see stands ready bent,  
to give each one their lot,  
Then have amongst you with my Bolts,  
for now I make a shot.   

He that doth take delight in Law,  
and ever to be brangling,  
Would he like to the Bells were hanged,  
that loves still to be jangling;  
His Lawyer's purse he fills with Coin,  
himself hath nothing got,  
And proves a beggar at the last,  
at him I make a shot.   

Who all the week doth work full hard,  
and moil both night and day,  
Will in a trice spend all his coin,  
and fool his means away,  
In drinking and in rioting,  
at pipe and at the pot,  
Whose brains are like an adled egg,  
at him I make a shot.   

The Prodigal that is left rich,  
that wastes his state away,  
In wantoness and surfeiting,  
in gaming and in play,  
And spends his means on Whores and Qeanes,  
doth make himself a sot,  
May in a spital chance to dye,  
at him I make a shot.   

He that is apt to come in bands  
for every common friend,  
May shake a beggar by the hand,  
and pay the debt it'h end,  
By selling Goods and Lands away,  
or in a Prison rot,  
Where none will pity his poor case,  
at him I make a shot.   

The Man that weds for greedy wealth,  
he goes a fishing fair,  
But often times he gets a Frog,  
or very little share;  
And he that is both young and free,  
and marries an old Trot,  
When he might live at liberty,  
at him I make a shot.   

The Second Part.  
To the same Tune.  
 

THe Miser that gets wealth great store,  
and wretchedly doth live,  
In's life is like to starve himself,  
at's death he all doth give  
Unto some Prodigal, or Fool,  
that spends all he hath got,  
With griping usury and pain,  
at him I make a shot.   

He that doth early rise each morn,  
and worketh hard all day,  
When he comes home can not come in,  
his Wife is gone to play;  
And lets her to drink and spend all  
the moneys which he got,  
Shall wear my Coxcomb and my Bell,  
and at him here's a shot.   

An Old-man for to dote in age  
upon a Wench that's young,  
Who hath a nimble wit and eye,  
with them a pleasing tongue,  
Actaeon's plume I greatly fear  
will fall unto his lot,  
That stoutly in his crest he'll bear,  
at him I make a shot.   

A Widow that is richly left,  
that will be Ladifide,  
And to some Gull or Roaring-boy  
she must be made a Bride,  
His clothes at Brokers he hath hired  
himself not worth a groat,  
That bast her hide and spends her means  
at her I make a shot.   

A Maiden that is fair, and rich,  
and young, yet is so proud,  
That ●auour unto honest men  
by no means can be lowed;  
And thus she spends her chiefest prime,  
refusing her good lot,  
In youth doth scorn in age is scorned,  
at her I make a shot.   

But she that wanton is and fond,  
that fast and loose will play,  
When that her reconing are cast up,  
must for it sound pay,  
And may the Father chance to seek  
of that which she hath got,  
Besides her standing in a sheet,  
at her I make a s●●t.   

Who spends his time in youth away,  
to be a Servingman,  
Dotd seldom grow for to be rich,  
do he the best he can;  
And then when age doth come, God knows  
this Man hath nothing got,  
But is turned out amongst the dogs,  
at him I make a shot.   

He that doth sell his Lands away,  
an Office for to buy,  
May keep a quarter for a time,  
but will a beggar dye;  
For he hath sold his Lamb's good man,  
and younger Sheep hath got,  
Although he think himself so wise,  
at him I make a shot.   

He that will go unto the Sea,  
and may live well on shore,  
Although he venture life and goods,  
may hap to come home poor,  
Or by the Foe be made a Slave,  
with all that he hath got,  
Whose Limbs in pieces are all torn,  
at him I make a shot.   

Those that their Parents do reject,  
and makes of them a scorn,  
Who wishes then with grief and woe  
they never had been borne;  
For portion they may Twelvepences have  
beside a heavy lot,  
For disobedience ordained,  
at them I make a shot.   

The Parents which their Child brings up  
to have their own free will,  
The wise and ancient Solomon  
doth say they them will spill:  
And when correction comes too late,  
they wish they'd ne'er been got:  
But for their folly which is past,  
at them I make a shot.   

They that continue still in sin,  
and think they ne'er shall dye,  
Deferring off repentance still,  
and lives in jollity,  
Death quickly comes and ceases them,  
and then it is their lot  
In hell's hot flame for to remain,  
at them I make a shot.   

And so farewell my Masters all,  
God send's a merry meeting;  
Pray be not angry with the Fool  
that thus to you sends greeting:  
And if that any have 〈◊〉  
and says I did not hit them,  
It is because my Bolts are spent,  
but I'll have more to fit them.   
FINIS.  
T.F.    

Printed at London for I. G.