Taken from:

From Shakespeare to Coward

From The Globe to The Phoenix Theatre

A Guide to Historic Theatrical London and the World Beyond

by Elizabeth Sharland

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A Sonnet Upon the Pitiful Burning of the Globe Playhouse in London

A Broadsheet Ballad

Now sit thee down, Melpomene,
Wrapped in a sea-coal robe,
And tell the doleful tragedy
That late was played at Globe;
For no man that can sing and say
Was scared on St Peter's Day.
Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true.

All you that please to understand,
Come listen to my story;
To see Death with his raking brand
'Mongst such an auditory;
Regarding neither Cardinal's might,
Nor yet the rugged face of Henry the Eighth.
Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true.

No shower his rain did there down force,
In all that sunshine weather,
To save that great renowned house,
Nor thou, O ale-house, neither.
Had it begun below, sans doute,
Their wives for fear had pissed it out.
Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true.

This fearful fire began above,
A wonder strange and true,
And to the stage-house did remove,
As round as tailor's clew;
And burnt down both beam and snag,
And did not spare the silken flag.
Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true.

anon (1613)

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