POST-HASTE

Let's make up a company of Players, For we can all sing and say, And so (with practice) soon may learn to play. I'll teach ye to play true Politicians. Why proper-fellowes, they play Lords and Kings, Content; Scrivener, hoe, You must tie a knot of Knaves together. Your names he means; the man's learned. I Master Posthaste the Poet. Oh stately Scrivener, thats where dwell ye? Politician Players. Whose but the merry Knight's, sir Oliver Owlets, There was never a better man to Players. What a greasy phrase: This playing will furnish ye. Heeres half a dozen good fellows. The liker to thrive. A speaks to you players; I am the poett. 'Tis not to be dealt on without store of drink. Nay 'tis well said, for drink must clap up the bargain. Lets away. Have you cried the Play, masters? Oh sirs, my wit's grown no less plentiful then the time. Ther's two sheets done in follio, will cost two shillings in time. I that you shall, I swear by the Sunne-sit down sirs, When Authors quill, in quivering hand, His tired arm did take: His wearied Muse, bade him devise, Some fine play for to make. And now my Masters in this brauadoe, I can read no more without Canadoe. Enter the Prodigal Child; fill the pot I would say, Huffa, huffa, who Calais for me? I play the Prodigal child in jollity. Enter to him Dame Virtue: My Son thou art a lost child, (This is a passion, note you the passion?) And hath many poor men of their goods beguiled: Oh prodigal child, and child prodigal. Read the rest sirs, I cannot read for tears, Fill me the pot I prethe fellow Gulch. My masters, what tire wears your lady on her head? Oh amiable good, it's excellent. I'll doo't extempore. Why Lords we are here to show you what we are, Lords we are here although our clothes be bore, In steed of flowers, in season, ye shall gather Rhyme and Reason? I never pleased my self better, it comes off with such suavity. Why man? The glass is run our play is done, Hence Time does call, we thank you all. No matter so they thump us not, Come, come, we poets have the kindest wretches to our Ingles One whose hands are hard as battledores with clap ping at baldness. Content. Why his reward is worth the Mayor & all the town. Sir, we have carowst Like Kings, For here is plenty of all things. God bless my Lord Mavortius, & his merry men all, To make his honour merry, we sing in the hall. We hope (for causes) in the house, though drink be in our heads. Because to Plenty we carouse, for beef and beer, and beds. For mine own partly, though this summer season I am desperate of a horse. A Gentleman's a Gentleman, that hath a clean shirt on, with some learning, and so have I. Mother Gurtons neadle; ( a Tragedy. ) The Devil and Dives; ( a Comedy. ) Arusset coat, and a Knaves cap; ( and Infernal ) A proud heart and a beggars purse; ( a pastoral. ) The Widow's apron-strings; ( a nocturnal. ) My Lords, of your accords, some better pleasure for to bring, if you a theme affords, you shall know it, that I Posthaste the Poet, extempore can sing. Your Lord? what, shall our pains be soundly recom penc'd? With open hand of honours srancke reward? But are you sure that none will want the weight? To weigh down our expense in sumptuous Clothes? Oh sir, your moral lines were better spent, In matters of more worthy consequent. Preach to the poor; look Steward, to your count, Direct your household, teach not us to mount: Sir as concerning half a score angels Or such a matter for a man in my place. Faith I'll eene passed all my ballads together, And make a coat to hold out pistoll-proofe; Well sirs, I have no stomach to these wars, Goody sharp, be not so short, I'll pay you, when I give you money. What and be under fifty? Faith sir, War hath so pinched us we must pawn. What sixpence and Egg, and two and two at and Egg. Fellows bring out the hamper choose somew-what out o'th Stock. What will you have this cloak to pawn, what think you it's worth? You may see what it is to laugh at the Audience. Sir, (at few words we shared but xv. pence last week. Who are not are glad to bring such as they can get. Fallen to work after playing unpossible. Cunstable do you know what you do. Know you our credit with Sir Oliver? I'll boldy fallen to ballading again. It's and ill wind blows a man thus clean out of ballading. Saving your sad tale, will you take a pot or two.