Philip will cry still: Yet, yet, yet.
And yet besides all this good sport
My Philip can both sing and dance,
With new found toys of sundry sort
My Philip can both prick and prance.
And if you say but: Fend cut,[69] Phipp!
Lord, how the peat[70] will turn and skip!
For when she once hath felt the fit,
Philip will cry still: Yet, yet, yet.
And to tell truth he were to blame—