Stand back, ye sleeping Jacks at home,
And let me go.
You lie, sir knave; am I a mome?
Why say you so?
Tut, tut, you dare not come in field,
For fear you should the ghost up yield.
With blows he goes, the gunshot fly,
It fears, it sears, and there doth lie.

A hundred in a moment be
Destroyed quite:
Sir sauce, in faith, if you should see
The gunshot light,
To quake for fear you would not stint,
When as by force of gunshot's dint
The ranks in ray are took away,
As pleaseth fortune oft to play.

But in this stour who bears the fame
But only I?
Revenge, Revenge will have the name,
Or he will die.
I spare no wight, I fear none ill,
But with this blade I will them kill;
For when mine ear is set on fire,
I rap them, I snap them, that is my desire.

Farewell, adieu, to wars I must
In all the haste.
My cousin Cutpurse will, I trust,
Your purse well taste;
But to it, man, and fear for nought;
Me say to thee, it is well fraught
With ruddocks red: be at a beck,
Beware thy face, break not thy neck.