Her mornings draught of Sugar sops and Saffron
Into her sighing neighbours cambrick apron.
At which a Lard she cry’d full sad to see
The foule mishap, yet sufferd patiently:
How doe you then she cry’d? I’me glad ’tis up:
Ah sick, sick, sick; cryes one, oh for a cup
Of my mint water that’s at home.
As patt as might be, then the Parson cry’d,
’Tis good; one holds her head, let’t come let’t come.
Still crying; just i’th’ nick, the Priest reply’d,