%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> The vvofull Lamentation of William Purcas, vvho for murtherin / his Mother at Thaxted in Essex was executed at Chelmsford. University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center Director Patricia Fumerton 1624-1624 Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 04/22/2011 30299

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Patricia Fumerton Early Modern Center - English Department University of California Santa Barbara, CA 93105 United States of America EMail: pfumer@english.ucsb.edu

R215903 10 UNKNOWN UNKNOWN UNKNOWN UNKNOWN UNKNOWN UNKNOWN UNKNOWN UNKNOWN The rich Merchant UNKNOWN The Rich Merchant the same tune UNKNOWN The Same Tune THe Swan before her death, / most pleasantly doth sing: THus stubborne did I stand, / against my Mother deare: Roxburghe Ballads Editor None None None None Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 1: 444 1: 445 The vvofull Lamentation of William Purcas, vvho for murtherin / his Mother at Thaxted in Essex was executed at Chelmsford. The wofull Lamentation of William Purcas, who for murtherin his Mother at Thaxted in Essex was executed at Chelmsford. The woeful Lamentation of William Purcas, who for murdering his Mother at Thaxted in Essex was executed at Chelmsford. 1624-1624 Francis Coules

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 Early Modern Center Ballad Project Keyword Taxonomy advice affliction/ health alcohol animals/ nature Bible/ biblical figures buildings/ architecture catastrophe children class clothing/ appearance country/ nation crime death economics/ commerce entertainments family folklore gender holidays/ seasons infidelity labor/ craft law London love maritime marriage military/ war monstrosity mythology/ Classical news nobility/ court politics/ government procreation punishment race/ ethnicity religious concepts religious figures religious types & sects royalty rural life servitude sex/ sexuality supernatural/ magic The New World travel trickery/ deceit urban life vice violence virtue vulgarities/ crass humor youth/ age Library of Congress Subject Heading Taxonomy 4/22/2011 Santa Barbara, California, United States of America alcohol death religious concepts vice violence Ballads, English 17th century Broadsides, England 17th century 4/22/2011 3:15:42 PM XBallad Doss, MacKenzie Created XML Version of Ballad 4/22/2011 3:15:42 PM Transcription Supervisor McAbee, Kristina, Nebeker, Eric Transcription of ballad manuscript 4/22/2011 3:15:42 PM Double-Key Comparison and Merging Meyer, Shannon Transcription of ballad manuscript 4/22/2011 3:15:42 PM Transcriptionist Two Hehmeyer, Paxton Transcription of ballad manuscript 4/22/2011 3:15:42 PM Transcriptionist One Becker, Charlotte Transcription of ballad manuscript 7/17/2008 Bibliographer Giles Bergel Initial Ballad Catalogue Record Created 2/15/2011 Checker Bethany Wong Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 10/7/2010 Checker Danielle Davey Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 10/24/2008 Checker Shannon Meyer Edited Ballad Catalogue Record
<seg n="1" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">The wofull Lamentation of <hi rend="bold">William Purcas,</hi> who for murtherin</hi></seg> <seg n="2" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">his Mother at <hi rend="bold">Thaxted</hi> in <hi rend="bold">Essex</hi> was executed at <hi rend="bold">Chelmsford.</hi></hi></seg> <lb/> <seg n="3" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">To the tune of, <hi rend="bold">The rich Merchant.</hi></hi></seg>
THe Swan before her death, most pleasantly doth sing: But I a heavie hearted note with teares my hands doe wring, With teares my hands doe wring, yet not a teare for death; For I am weary of my life, desiring losse of breath. No teares for death I shed, but for my sinnes I mourne; Oh, for that sin that makes me wish, I never had been borne, I never had been borne, mercy good Lord I crave: Oh would my mothers tender womb, had been my timelesse grave. Ah me, that very word strikes through my wounded heart, The name of Mother (oh my soule) doth aggravate my smart, Doth aggravate my smart, and much increase my woe, Ner villaine did so vile a deed as I have done, I know. Oh now (alas) I know, but now (alas) too late, Drinke then deprivd me of my sense, and of my humane state. Oh, that detested Vice is that we should detest, A thousand thousand times I curse, though once I lovd it best.
Yea, once I lovd it well, oh, too too well indeed: For that I did in drinke ore-gone, my woe-tyrd soule doth bleed. For this foule spotted fault, my mother many a time Would gently chide me, & would wish me leave this loathed crime. Sheed tell me twas a sinne that many sinnes did feed, As swearing, whoring, and such like, and true she said indeed. With teares she oft did say, a wicked end twill have, Therefore my son doe thou take heed, take heed of it I crave. With heavie heart she thus would seeme to turne my minde, But slightly Ide regard her words, which now too true I finde. Her Hony words to me more bitter were than gall; I tooke her for my foe, when she was most my friend of all. Sheed speake to me in love, Ide answer her in rage, Without all feare or reverence of title, or of age. Thus oft with words weed part, till good with bad I crost; But at the last, in drinking rage my wit and sense I lost.
Her words I would not heare, in rage I drew my knife, To take deare life away from her, by whom I had my life. The sight of which did make her heart much sorrow feele: (Then as I should have done to her) she unto me did kneele, And on her knees did beg, that I her life would spare, And twere but for my soule, on whic[h] she prayd me have a care: Oh spare me, sonne, she said, forget not who I am, Thy aged Mother doe not then thy eares against me dam. Alas, how canst thou, sonne; endure to see me kneele, And beg & weep and wring my hands, and no compassion feele? For telling thee thy fault, and wishing thee to leave, I pray thee doe not desperately me of my life bereave. Thus kneeling would she beg, and begging, weep apace; And weeping, she would wring her hands, in lamentable case. Yet nothing was I movd with all her piteous moane, My heart for her did feele no griefe, but was as hard as stone.
<seg n="1" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">The second part. To the same tune.</hi></seg>
THus stubborne did I stand, against my Mother deare: This second Part; the bloody part, discoursed you shall heare. Now, now, oh now againe, full heavily I sing; And in relation of my woe, both heart and hands I wring: For that I now shall tell, will draw forth brinish teares From any that have humane hearts, or my laments that heares. Her kind intreats I crost, with bitter words and oathes, Such as the wicked love to heare, such as the vertuous loathes. And after all these wandring words, with Hels prepared knife, I quickly wounded her to death, from whom I had my life. Vi[l]e Nero (I have read) his Mother ript to see The place where he an Embrion lay; O foule impietie! Yet none more vile than this, than this that I have done; Oh, never did there ever live so impious a sonne. Cain branded was a Slave, for murthering of his Brother; Oh, what am I then, what am I, for murthering of my Mother? Aye me, my Mother deare, that bitter paines did prove In bearing me, and ever since full dearely did me love.
Full dearely did me love, as any Mother could: And carefull was she still for me, as any Mother should. Her best in all she did, still working for my good: Yet all her paine and care I quit, with shedding of her blood. With shedding of her blood, her kindnesse I did quit, By the Devill goaded on to dot, even in my drunken fit. All you that take delight in this abhorred Vice, The end of it come finde of me, and learne to be more wise. This staines my soule as much as any sinne of seven, That blacks the soule, that we should keep most faire and fit for Heaven, So long is a man a man, as Reason he retaines: But Reason gone, he is no man, that shapes but little gaines. If man be then no man, when Reason is away, Man is no man when he is drunke, for Drinke doth Reason sway. O, whats a Drunkard then, of Reason dispossest! As other creatures reasonlesse, he is a brutish Beast. And thus by me take heed of Drunkennesse (I end.) O flie this Vice, and see what sinnes doe not this Vice attend. For that I did in drinke, now I am here to dye: Ten thousand deaths I have deservd for this impietie. Thus sorry for my sinne, I pray that all may mend: And Christ I pray receive my soule after my shamefull end.
FINIS. Printed at London for Francis Coules dwelling in the Old-Baily.