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is call’d a chamber-pot.
To make water Jack had a like,
but he was loath to riſe
And if he did the bed bepiſs,
he thought it bad likewiſe.
At laſt he roſe and ſcratch’d about,
but all in vain, God wot!
In every place he made a rout,
but could not find the pot.
Under his father’s bed he creeps,
hoping to find one there.
The good old man now ſoundy ſleeps,
and nothing he doth hear.
Two bird-lime pots there were
which the old man had in ſtore,
And ſo poor Jack was round beſet
with troubles evermore.
Jack thruſts his hands with might and main
into the bird lime pans
He could not get them out again,
but there be grumbling ſtands.
Round about the room he walks
with the lime pots on his hands,
Then often to himſelf he talks,
curſing of bird-lime pans,
He ſtamps, ſtares, fumes, and frets,
and ſhakes his head in vain,
And like a man beſide his wits,
to his wife he does complain.
When ſhe the jeſt did come to know,
ſhe could not chuſe but ſmile,
