GAZET

j sir 'Tis out of my Indentures, I am bound there To swear for my Master's profit as securely As your intelligencer must for his Prince, That sends him forth and honourable spy, To serve his purposes. And if it be lawful In a Christian shopkeeper to cheat his father, I cannot find but to abuse a Turk In the sale of our commodities, must be thought A meritorious work. Troth to answer truly I would not be of one that should command me To feed upon poor John, when I see Pheasants And Partridges on the Table: nor do I Like The other that allows us to eat flesh In the Lent though it be rotten, rather then be Thought superstitious, as your zealous Cobbler, And learned butcher Preach at Amsterdam Over a Hotchpotch. I would not be continued fined In my belief, when all your Sects, ect rises Are grown of one opinion, if I Like it I will profess my self, in the mean time Live I in England, Spain, France, I am of that Countries aith, No! so I should lose A Collop of that partly my Worser ll in oyn'd me To bring home as she left it; 'tis her venture, Nor dare I barter that commodity Without her special uva rant. Take you heed sir What colours you wear. Not two hours since there Lan dead And English Pirates Whore with a green apron, And as she walked the streets, one of their Muftis We call them Priests at Venice, with a Razor Cuts it of Petticoat, Smock and all, and leaves her As naked as my Nail: the young Fry wondering What strange beast it should be. I scaped a scouring My Mistress Buskepoynt, of that forbidden colour Then tied my codpiece, had it been discovered I had been caponde. Though I strive sir To put of Melencholy, to which, you are ever Too much inclined, it shall not hinder me With my best care to serve you What do you lack, your choice China dishes, your pure Venetian Crystal, of all sorts, of all neat and new fashions, from the mirror of the madam, to the private vtensile of her chambermaid, and curious Pictures of the rarest beauty's of Europa: what do you lack Gentle men? Cold doings, Sir, a Mars do you call this? Slight A pudding wife, or a Witch with a thrumbe Cap That sells Ale under ground to such as come To know their Fortune's, in a dead Vacation Have ten to one more stirring. Your seller by retail ought to be angry But when he's fingering money. What do you lack? what do you lack? pure Do you hear sir, We have paid for our Ground? And humh too, For all your big words, get you further off, And hinder not the prospect of our shop Or— Nothing sir, but pray Your worship to give me handsel. The devil gnaw off his fingers, if he were In London among the clubs, up went his heals For striking of a Prentice. What do you lack, What do you lack gentlemen. What do you lack! see what you please to buy, Wares of all sorts most honourable Madonna. My Master's beware? We are undone! Oh strange! A Lady to turn rorer, and break glasses 'Tis time to shut up shop then. The swines Pox overtake you, theres a curse For a Turk that eats no Hogs flesh. That you should wait upon her And there receive Court payment, and to pass The guards, she bids you only say you come To one Donusa. One by his rich suit should be some french Em bassador For his train I think they are Turks. The train is vanished They have done him some good office he's so free And liberal of his gold. Would, do I dream, Or is this mine own natural Master; You make him blush To talk of honesty, you were but now In the giving vain, and may think of Gazet Your worships prentice. Rivo then. Pray you a word Sir, And then I will put on. I have one boon more. Thus then, as I am Master Of your Shop, and wares, pray you help me to some trucking With your last she customer, though she crack my best piece I will endure it with patience. I may, you have been doing, we will do too. Now you do not roar sir You speak not tempests, nor take eare-rent from A poor shopkeeper. Do you remember that sir, I wear your marks here still. Why he's cassherde sir, His ships, his goods, his liuery-puncks confiscate, And there is such a punishment laid upon him, The miserable rogue must steal no more, Nor drink, nor drab. I vanish. A pretty structure this! a court do you call it? Valted and arched: Oh here has been old jumbling Behind this arras. I have herd that some Have feol'd themselves at Court into good Fortune's, That never hoped to thrive by wit in the City, Or honesty in the Country. If I do not Make the best laugh at me, he weep for my self, If they give me hearing. 'Tis resolu worser In try What may be done. By your favour ir, I pray you Were you born a Courtier? Because I thought that none could be preferred, But such as were begotten there. It may be, But pray you sir, had I such and itch upon me To change my copy, is there hope a place May be had here for money? I have a pretty stock, And would not have my good parts undiscovered, What places of credit are there? By no means that, it comes to near the beggar And most prove so that come there. Saus-iacke fie none of that. Not that. Out vpon't, 'Twill put me mind my Mother was and herbwoman, What is your place I pray you? And Euenuch! very fine, I faith, and Euenuch! And what are your employments? neat and easy. Oh rare! I'll be and Eunuch, though I fell my shop for't And all my wares. I'll partly with all my stones, and when I am And Eunuch, I'll so toss and towse the Ladies; Pray you help me to a chapman. I am made! and Eunuch! Excellent! and Eunuch! Tears sir? I have lost My worthy Master, your rich heir seems to mourn for A miserable father, your young widow Following a bedrid husband to his graven, Would have her neighbours think she cries, and rores, That she must partly with such a goodman do nothing, When t'is because he stays so long above ground, And hinders a rich suitor: all is come out sir, We are smoked for being cunnicatchers, my master Is put in prison, his she customer Is under guard to, these are things to weep for; But mine own lose considered, and what a fortune I have, as they say, snatched our of my chops, Would make a man run mad. Why sir, I had bo ght a place, A place of credit to, and had gone through with it I should have been made and Eunuch, there was honour, For a late poor prentice, when upon the sudden There was such a hurleburley in the Court, That I was glad to run away and carry The price of my office with me. Call you this a marriage? It differs little from hanging, I cry at it. Yes sir, and our wares (Though brittle as a maidenhead at ix teen) Are safe unladen; not a Crystal cracked, Or China dish needs sodring; our choice Pictures As they came from the workman, without blemish, And I have studied speeches for each Pe e, And in a thrifty tone to fell they off; Will swear by , and , That this is Mistress to the great Duke of Florence, That Niece to old King Pippin, and a third And Austrian Princess by her Roman nose, How ere my conscience tells me they are figures Of Ba des, and common Courtezans in Venice. Yes you may see her handiwork. 'Tis ten to one of that, I never knew Citizen turn Courtier yet, But he lost his credit, though he saved himself Why, look you sir, there are so many lobbies, Out offices, and disputations here Behind these Turkish hangings, that a Christian Hardly gets off but circumcised. Oh Sir! Should the State take order to bar men of acres, From those two laudable recreations, Drinking, and whoring, how should Panders purchase, Or thrifty Whores built Hospitals? slid if I That since I am made free, may write my self, A City gallant, should forfeit two such charters I should be stoned to death, and never be pitied, By the li eries of those companies. I am in my Master's clothes, They fit me to a hair too, let but any Indifferent gamester measure us inch, by inch, Or weigh us by the standard, I may pass I have been proved, and proved again, true mettle. I am sad too; But had I been and Eunuch Would I could aswell Fetch you a pardon, I would not run but fly, And be here in a moment. Most of your tribe do so When they begin in whore. That's ever the subscription To a damned whores false Epistle. dishes, clear Crystal glasses, a dumb Mistress to make love too? What do you lack gentlemen? My quondam Master, Rich sons forget they ever had poor father's, In servants 'tis more pardonable; as a companion, Or so, I may consent, but is there hope sir, He has God me a good chapwoman? pray you write A word or two in my behalf. How? her bedfellow, And lie with her? Oh save me sir. I feel some insurrections.