TAPWELL

Not a suck Sir, Nor the remainder of a single can Left by a drunken porter, all night palde too. Troth durst I trust you with a looking glasle, To let you see your trim shape, you would quit me, And take the name your self. Even so, Sir. And I must tell you if you but advance, Your plimworth cloak, you shall be soon instructed There dwells, and within call, if it please your worship, A potent moharch, called the Constable, That does command a Citadel, called the Stocks; Whose guards are certain files of rusty Billmen, Such as with great dexterity will hale Your tattered, lousy--- At his own peril, do not put your self In too much heat, there being no water near To quench your thirst, and sure for other liquour, As mighty Ale, or Beer, they are things I take it You must no more remember, not in a dream Sir. I find it not in chalk, and Timothy Tapwell Does keep no other register. What I was Sir, it skills not, What you are is apparent. Now for a farewel'; Since you talk of father, in my hope it will torment you, I'll briefly tell your story. Your dead father, My quondam master, was a man of worship, Old Sir John Wellborn, Justice of peace, and quorum, And stood fair to be Custos rotulorum; Bore the whole sway of the shire; kept a great house; Relieved the poor, and so forth; but He dying, And the twelve hundred a year coming to you, Late Master Francis, but now forlorn Welborne. But to my story. You were then a Lord of Akers; the prime gallant; And I your underbutler; note the change now. You had a merry time of't. Hawks, and Hounds, With choice of running horses; Mistress's Of all sorts, and all sizes; yet so hight As their embraces made your Lordship's melt; Which your Uncle Sir Giles Overreach observing, Resolving not to loose a drop of'em, On foolish mortgages, statutes, and bonds, For a while supplied your looseness, and then left you. I have not done yet: Your land gone, and your credit not worth a token, You grew the common borrower, no man scaped Your paper-pelletts, from the Gentleman To the beggars on high ways, that sold you switches In your gallantry. Where poor Time Tapwell with a little stock Some forty pounds or so, bought a small cottage, Humbled my self to marriage with my Froth here; Gave entertainment. True, but they brought in profit, And had a gift to pay for what they called for, And stuck not Like your mastership. The poor Income I gleaned from them, hath made me in my parish, Thought worthy to be Scavinger, and in time May rise to be Overseer of the poor; Which if I do, on your petition Welborne, I may allow you thirteen pence a quarter, And you shall thank my worship. Cry out for help. I must Sir, For from the tavern to the taphouse, all On forfeiture of their licences stand bound, Never to remember who their best guests were, If they grew poor Like you. O. Patience Froth. There's law to cure our bruises. Troth, we do not deserve it at his hands: Though he knew all the passages of our house; As the receiving of stolen goods, and bawdry When he was rogue Welborne, no man would believe him, And then his information could not hurt us. But now he is right Worshipful again, Who dares but doubt his testimony? me thinks I see thee Froth already in a cart For a close Bawd, thine eyes cu'n pelted out With dirt, and rotten eggs, and my hand hissing (If I escape the halter) with the letter R. Printed upon it. He has summoned all his Creditors by the drum, And they swarmo about him Like so many soldiers On the pay day, and has found out such a new way To pay his old debts, as it's very likely He shall be chronicled for it. It's true But now he's his Uncle's darling, and has God Master Justice Greedy (since he filled his belly) At his commandment, to do any thing; Woe, woe to us. Yes I hear him. And shall do every Christmas, let your Wor ship But stand my friend now. Unthankful knaves are ever so rewarded Undone, undone! this was your counsel, Froth.