Womanhod wanton ye want.
Youre medelyng mastres is manerles.
Plente of yll of goodnes skant.
Ye rayll at ryot recheles.
To prayse youre porte it is nedeles.
For all your draffe yet and your dreggys.
As well borne as ye full oft-tyme beggys.

Why so koy and full of skorne.
Myne horse is sold I wene you say.
My new furryd gowne when it is worne.
Put vp youre purs ye shall non pay.
By Crede I trust to se the day.
As proud a pohen as ye sprede.
Of me and other ye may haue nede.

Though angelyk be youre smylyng.
Yet is youre tong an adders tayle.
Full lyke a Scorpyon styngyng.
All those by whom ye haue auayle.
Good mastres Anne there ye do shayle.
What prate ye praty pyggys-ny.
I truste to quyte you or I dy.

Youre key is mete for euery lok.
Youre key is commen & hangyth owte.
Youre key is redy we nede not knok.
Nor stand long wrestyng there-aboute.
Of youre doregate ye haue no doute.
But one thyng is that ye be lewde.
Holde youre tong now all be shrewde.

To mastres Anne that farly swete.
That wonnes at the key in temmys strete.