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 All yow that please to understand, Come listen to my storye, To see Death with his rakeing brand Mongst such an auditorye; Regarding neither Cardinalls might, Nor yett the rugged face of Henry the Eight. Oh sorrow, &c.

This fearfull fire beganne above, A wonder strange and true, And to the stage-howse did remove, As round as taylors clewe; And burnt downe both beame and snagg, And did not spare the silken flagg. Oh sorrow, &c.

Out runne the knightes, out runne the lordes, And there was great adoe; Some lost their hattes, and some their swordes; Then out runne Burbidge too; The reprobates, though druncke on Munday, Prayd for the Foole and Henry Condye. Oh sorrow, &c.

The perrywigges and drumme-heades frye, Like to a butter firkin; A wofull burneing did betide To many a good buffe jerkin. Then with swolne eyes, like druncken Flemminges, Distressed stood old stuttering Heminges. Oh sorrow, &c.

No shower his raine did there downe force In all that Sunn-shine weather, To save that great renowned howse; Nor thou, O ale-howse, neither. Had itt begunne belowe, sans doubte, Their wives for feare had pissed itt out. Oh sorrow, &c.

Bee warned, yow stage-strutters all, Least yow againe be catched, And such a burneing doe befall, As to them whose howse was thatched; Forbeare your whoreing, breeding biles, And laye up that expence for tiles. Oh sorrow, &c.