Full Lyrics
Are you grown so melancholy,
That you think on nought but folly;
are you sad,
are you made,
are you worse;
Do you think,
Want of Chink
Is a Curse:
Do you wish for to have,
Longer life, or a Grave,
Thus would I Cure ye.
First I would have a Bag of Gold,
That should ten Thousand Pieces hold,
And all that,
In thy Hat,
Would I pour;
For to spend,
On thy Friend,
Or thy Whore:
For to cast away at Dice,
Or to shift you of your Lice,
Thus would I Cure ye.
Next I would have a soft Bed made,
Where a Virgin should be laid;
That would Play,
Any way
You'll devise;
That would stick
Like a Tick,
To your Thighs,
That would bill like a Dove,
Lye beneath or above,
Thus would I Cure ye.
