But there grim cruel Death met me again,
And shot his forkéd arrow through my head.
And now I faint; therefore be warn'd by me,
My fellows every one, of forkéd heads.
Farewell, all you good boys in merry London,
Ne'er shall we more upon Shrove Tuesday meet,
And pluck down houses of iniquity.
My pain increaseth: I shall never more
When clubs are cried be brisk upon my legs,
Nor daub a satin gown with rotten eggs.