'One miserable Wight did pyne and wane,
And on the seaventh Daie gave upp the Ghoste;
His Corse was oped by a Chirurgeon of fame
Who found that evrie dropp of bloud was loste.
'Nathless, our People though they pined and pined,
Yet never did our appetites decaye;
Whole Oxen scarse suffised when we dined,
And we cold drinke whole hogsheds of Tokaye.
'Soone Hundereds evrie daye gave up the Ghoste,
(Els' we a Famine in our Lande had bredde).
And, to repayr the Bloud that we had loste,
Our Beastes we killd and ate, but never bledde.
'Thus, by the Eve, our Colour freshe arose,
And we did look agen more briske and gay.
All Nighte deepe Slumbers did our Eye lidds close,
But worse and worse we wax by Breake of Daie.
'There was a taylour, Vulvius by name,
Who long had dwelt at Peste in honest pryde;
A Godlie Man he was esteemed by Fame,
And since some twelvemonths of a Feaver dyde.
'Now when at last this straunge Disease had growne
To suche a Highte as neer was heard afore,
Among the reste in our unhappie Towne
My youngest Daughter was afflicted sore.
'One Nighte it happed, as she was slepyng laied,
Her wayting Girle at Midnight left her roome
To fetch some possett, brothe, or gellie, made
To quelle the plague that did her life consume.
'When, as she softly shut the Doore, she heard
An heavie Thinge come lumbering upp the Stayres,
Whereon the buried Tailour soone appeard
And She (poor Mayd) full loud 'gan saye her Prayres.
'Shrowded he was, as when his Corse was laied
Under the Earthe, and buriall Service redde;
Nor yet was he a Ghoste, for his Footsteppes made
A Noyse more hevie than a Tunne of Ledde.
'She sawe him ope my Daughter's chamber-Doore,
And had no Spirit to persewe nor flie,
And Vulvius agen, in half an houre,
Lumbered downe Stayres yett much more hevilie.