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Cabaret Songs, Vol. 1 "Thus Saith the Dames and Wenches"

by Joel Balzun (b. 1990)

1. Doll Tearsheet's Song [sung text not yet checked]

Doll Tearsheet.
Charge me! I scorn you, scurvy companion. What! you poor,
base, rascally, cheating, lack-linen mate! Away, you mouldy
rogue, away! I am meat for your master.

Pistol.
I know you, Mistress Dorothy.

Doll Tearsheet.
Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By
wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play
saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you
basket-hilt stale juggler, you! Since when, I pray you, sir?
God's light, with two points on your shoulder? Much!

Authorship:

Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

2. Old Woman's Lament `Egyptian Mud' [sung text not yet checked]

Old Lady.
How tastes it? is it bitter? forty pence, no.
There was a lady once, 'tis an old story,
That would not be a queen, that would she not,
For all the mud in Egypt: have you heard it?

Anne Bullen.
Come, you are pleasant.

Old Lady.
With your theme, I could
O'ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke!
A thousand pounds a year for pure respect!
No other obligation! By my life,
That promises moe thousands: honour's train
Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time
I know your back will bear a duchess: say,
Are you not stronger than you were?

Anne Bullen.
Good lady,
Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy,
And leave me out on't. Would I had no being,
If this salute my blood a jot: it faints me,
To think what follows.
The queen is comfortless, and we forgetful
In our long absence: pray, do not deliver
What here you've heard to her.

Old Lady.
What do you think me?

Authorship:

Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

3. The Wench's Ditty [sung text not yet checked]

Jaquenetta
With that face?

Authorship:

Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

4. Beatrice's Ol' Tune [sung text not yet checked]

Beatrice.
Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.

Benedick. 
Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.

Beatrice. 
I took no more pains for those thanks than you take
pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I would
not have come.

Benedick. 
You take pleasure then in the message?

Beatrice. 
Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife's
point and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach,
signior: fare you well.

Authorship:

Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
Total word count: 339