I rise at eleven , I dine about two I get drunk before seven , and the first thing I do , I send for my whore , when for fear of the clap , I spend in her hand , and spew in her lap : Then we quarrel , and scold , till I fall fast asleep When the bitch , growing bold , to my pocket does creep ; Then slyly she leaves me , and to avenge th'affront , At once she bereaves me of money , and cunt . If by chance then I wake , hot headed and drunk, What a coyle do I make for the loss of my punck ? I storm and I roar , and I fall in rage , And missing my whore , I bugger my page ; Then crop-sick , all morning , I rail at my men , And in bed I lye yawning , till eleven again .