The woeful Lamentation of William Purcas, who for murtherin his Mother at Thaxted in Essex was executed at Chelmsford.  
To the tune of, The rich Merchant.  

 

THe Swan before her death,  
most pleasantly doth sing:  
But I a heavy hearted note  
with tears my hands do wring,  
With tears my hands do wring,  
yet not a tear for death;  
For I am weary of my life,  
desiring loss of breath.   

No fears for death I shed,  
but for my sins I mourn;  
Oh, for that sin that makes me wish,  
I never had been borne,  
I never had been borne,  
mercy good Lord I crave:  
Oh would my mother's tender womb,  
had been my timeless grave.   

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

Oh now (alas) I know,  
but now (alas) too late,  
Drink then deprived 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 loved it best.   

Yea, once I loved it well,  
oh, too too well indeed:  
For that I did in drink overgo,  
my woe-tyred soul doth bleed.  
For this foul spotted fault,  
my mother many a time  
Would gently chide me, & would wish  
me leave this loathed crime.   

Shéeed tell me 'twas a sin  
that many sins did feed,  
As swearing, whoring, and such like,  
and true she said indeed.  
With tears she oft did say,  
a wicked end 'twill have,  
Therefore my son do thou take heed,  
take heed of it I crave.   

With heavy heart she thus  
would seem to turn my mind,  
But slightly I'd regard her words,  
which now too true I find.  
Her Honey words to me  
more bitter were than gall;  
I took her for my foe, when she  
was most my friend of all.   

Shéeed speak to me in love,  
I'd answer her in rage,  
Without all fear or reverence  
of title, or of age.  
Thus oft with words wéeed part,  
till good with bad I crossed▪  
But at the last, in drinking rage  
my wit and sense I lost.   

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

And on her knees did beg,  
that I her life would spare,  
And 'twere but for my soul, on which  
she prayed me have a care:  
Oh spare me, son, she said,  
forget not who I am,  
Thy aged Mother do not then  
thy ears against me dam.   

Alas, how canst thou, son,  
endure to see me kneel,  
And beg & weep and wring my hands,  
and no compassion feel?  
For telling thee thy fault,  
and wishing thee to leave,  
I pray thee do not desperately  
me of my life bereave.   

Thus kneeling would she beg,  
and begging, weep apace;  
And weeping, she would wring her hands,  
in lamentable case.  
Yet nothing was I moved  
with all her piteous moan,  
My heart for her did feel no grief,  
but was as hard as stone.    

The second part.  
To the same tune.  
 

THus stubborn did I stand,  
against my Mother dear:  
This second Part, the bloody part,  
discoursed you shall hear.   

Now, now, oh now again,  
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 tears  
From any that have humane hearts,  
or my laments that hears.   

Her kind entreats I crossed,  
with bitter words and oaths,  
Such as the wicked love to hear,  
such as the virtuous loathes.  
And after all these wand'ring words,  
with Hell's prepared knife,  
I quickly wounded her to death,  
from whom I had my life.   

Vi●e Nero (I have read)  
his Mother ripped to see  
The place where he an Embryo lay;  
O foul impiety!  
Yet none more vile than this,  
than this that I have done;  
Oh, never did there ever live  
so impious a son.   

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

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

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

This stains my soul as much  
as any sin of seven,  
That blacks she soul, that we should keep  
most fair and fit for Heaven.  
So long is a man a man,  
as Reason he retains:  
But Reason gone, he is no man,  
that shape's but little gains.   

If man be then no man,  
when Reason is away,  
Man is no man when he is drunk,  
for Drink doth Reason sway.  
O, what's a Drunkard then,  
of Reason dispossessed!  
As other creatures reasonless,  
he is a brutish Beast.   

And thus by me take heed  
of Drunkenness (I end.)  
O fly this Vice, and see what sins  
do not this Vice attend.  
For that I did in drink,  
now I am here to dye:  
Ten thousand deaths I have deserved▪  
for this impiety.   

Thus sorry for my sin,  
I pray that all may mend:  
And Christ I pray receive my soul,  
after my shameful end.    
FINIS.   

Printed at London for Francis Coules, dwelling in the Old-Baily.