Good Sir, you wrong your Breeches, Pleasantly discoursed by a witty Youth, and a wily Wench.  
To the tune of Oh no, no, no, not yet: Or, I'll never love thee more.  
 

A Young man and a Lass of late,  
within a Garden Ally,  
As Cupid had commanded him,  
began to court and dally:  
She bade him have a special care,  
he fell into no Ditches,  
For so, (quoth she) the proverb says,  
good Sir, you'll wrong your Breeches.   

Thou art my only dearest love,  
the Youngman than replied:  
I will buy thee a silken gown,  
a Petticoat beside,  
A Kirtle laid with silver Lace,  
with gallant golden stitches.  
In doing so, good Sir, (quoth she)  
you well may wrong your Breeches.   

we'll walk about the Meadows green,  
each Summer morning early.  
Forbear (quoth she) 'tis better far,  
amongst green Pease and Barley.  
Where if you will a peazing go,  
you must take up no Fitches:  
Lest those that owe the Peascod field,  
do say you wrong your Breeches.   
 

I'll give thee all my ewes and Lambs,  
and Kine unto thy Dary.  
To keep the horns yourself (quoth she)  
I hope you will be wary.  
For they will serve you passing fit,  
to be your household riches,  
Where if you go to borrow horns,  
you'll greatly wrong your Breeches.   

The Minstrel of our town shall play  
thee still thy morning's Ditty.  
Good Sir (quoth she) I want rewards,  
for one that is so witty.  
For when I hear your music sound,  
my fingers always itches,  
To crown you with a Fiddler's fee:  
you wrong (good Sir) your Breeches.   

we'll feed no more on Barley broth,  
the grabe's a sweeter diet.  
Too deep a taste (quoth she) will bring,  
your body out of quiet,  
And vex you with tormenting gripes,  
of many rumbling stitches:  
That you will be constrained (good Sir)  
at last to wrong your Breeches.   

The Second part.  
To the same tune.  
 

I'll fight, my Love, in thy defence,  
my weapons at thy pleasure,  
Whereat the wily Wench replied,  
I doubt you'll have no leisure.  
And so you will a dastard prove,  
When as the field he pitches:  
And ●oming thence for fear away,  
you much may wrong your Breeches.   

I am a lively jovial Lad,  
and for thy sake will swagger:  
Until the ground look blue (my Wench)  
my wit shall never stagger.  
Take heed (quoth she) lest Midas Ass  
your drowsy pate bewitches:  
For being drunk, then with your Punk,  
good Sir, you'll wrong your Breeches.   

A Pot and Pipe is all my life,  
for this becomes a wooer:  
Come, bonny Bess, let's college and kiss,  
I am no other doer.  
Hold off (quoth she) your hands are foul,  
and all my clothes bepitches;  
For if you thus bemoyle yourself,  
you'll greatly wrong your Breeches.   
 

My dapple grey to bear thee hence,  
shall soon be saddled finely:  
To ride and run for thee, my Love,  
so thou wilt use me kindly.  
But if you ride too fast (quoth she)  
he'll throw us into ditches:  
And so shall I bemyer myself,  
and you much wrong your Breeches.   

The Youngman at these wilily words,  
in friendly manner smiled:  
In that she had so cunningly,  
his proffered love beguiled.  
But yet at last she took of him,  
himself and all his riches:  
And would no more then scoffing say,  
(Good Sir) you wrong your Breeches.   

Thus Cupid is a wilily Lad,  
and well his Bow can handle:  
To make young Wenches light their lamps,  
to burn by Venus' Candle.  
For I am now in love (quoth she)  
this young man me bewitches:  
And I am vexed that ere I said,  
(Good Sir) you wrong your Breeches.    
FINIS.   

At London printed for I. T.