HIRCIUS

So then, if any Coxecombe has a galloping de sire to ride, heres a Gelding, if he can but fit him. But thats a kickish Jade, fellow Spungins, have not I as much cause to complain as thou hast? When I was a Pagan, there was and Infidel Punk of mine, would have let me come upon trust for my coruetting, a pox of your christian Coxatrices, they cry Like Poulterers wives, no more ney, no Cony. Thy Last shall serve my foot, so will I. And Woodcock fellow Spungins. Eat it, and be choked else. Therein thou shewdst thy self a perfect demy-Christian too, to let the poor beg, starve and hang, or die a the pip: our puling snotty-nose Lady sent me out Like wise with a purse of money, to relieve and release prisoners: did I so think you? As I am a total Pagan, I swore they should be hanged first: for sirrah Spungius, I lay at my old ward of lechery, and cried a pox in your twopenny wards, and so I took scurvy common flesh for the money. All my fear is of that pinke-an-eye Iacke-an Apes boy, her page. With the dirty pudding; so he did me once with a cowturd, which in knavery I would have crumb into ones porridge, who was half a Pagan to: the smug dandiprat smells us out whatsoever we are doing. 'Tis my Lady spoils the boy, for he is ever at her tail: and she's never well but in his company. We would not be idle, take it upon my word. Went no, I carried it; and with these fingers paid it away. Or me given so to the flesh, my cheeks speak my doings. Or in mine? come amiable. Angelo, beat the flint of your brains. No, better burn him, for I think he is a witch, but sooth, sooth him. And she-ones for mine, we have they swim in shoal hard by. Yes indeed, we laid lill on both of us, we cousen'd the poor, but it's a common thing, many a one that counts himself a better Christian then we two, has done it, by this light. And put nothing but the poy sond tails of Rats into those skins. Would I were haugd rather then thus betold of my faults. Lets break his neck, and bid him mend. Delivered with good hands madam, else let me never lick my fingers more when I eat buttered fish. Whisper, nay Lady, for my partly I'll cry whoop. The fowl Fiend snap all Pagans for me. A patch, a patch. How now Angelo how is't? how is't? what thread spins That whore Fortune upon her wheel now. Come a port von, come a port von, my petite garsoone We thank our fates, the sign of the gingle-boys hangs at the doors of our pockets. Nay who can say any citizen is and Ass, for lading his own back, with money, till his soul cracks again, only to leave his son Like a gilded coxccombe behind him? will not any fool take me for a wiseman now, seeing me draw out of the pit of my treasury, this little God with his belly full of gold. Gold poison! there's never a she-thrasher in Can sarea that lives on the flail of money will call it so. The gallows and we fell out, so she did but partly us I can but let my Nose drop in sorrow with wet eyes for her. Yes, & the smock of her charity is now all to pieces How la piece of silver! if thou Wertenberg and Angel of gold I would not put thee into white money, unless I weighed thee, and I weigh thee not a rush. And so sweet Nit we crawl from thee. Idem be sorry my dog were so full of the poxc. Away, away boy. Spungius you're a pickpocket. Th'art a thiese, and thou liest in that gut through which thy wine runs, if thou deniest it. Lets both be turned into a rope of Onions if we do Let him lead that way, but follow thou me this way. A way and shift for our selves, sheele do well enough there, for prisoners are more hungry after mutton, then Catchpoles after prisoners. Spunoius. Hast any money? No, my money is a mad Bull, and finding any gap opened, away it runs. Thou didst, I did not; yet I had run to, but that one gave me turpentine pills, & that stayed my running. Sure thy father was some butcher, and thy hungry tongue bit off these shreds of complaints, to patch up the elbows of thy nitty eloquence. A low minded Cobbler, a Cobbler whose zeal set many a woman upright, the remembrance of whose Awl I now having nothing, thrusts such scurvy stitches into my soul, that the heel of my happiness has gone awry. Long I cannot last, for all sowterly wax of comfort melting away, and misery taking the length of my foot, it boots not me to sue for life when all my Hope's are seam. rend, and go wetshod. So would I, for both of us being now weary of our lives, should then be sure of shoemakers ends. So am not I, but I am more then famishd. So are mine, and nothing but a cook being a constable can appease them, presenting to my nose, instead of his painted staff, a spitfull of rost-meate. And my mouth sets out a throat to my hand why dost not thou lift up meat and cram my chops with it. Which mine eyes seeing, full of tears, cry aloud, and curse my feet for not ambling up and down to feed Colon, since if good meat be in any place, 'tis known my feet can smell. Why mong so many millions of people, should thou and I only be miserable totterdemalions, rag-a muffins, and lousy desperates. Lousy, beggarly, thou whoreson Assa Faetida. As how arsnicke: come make the world smart. Stop, look who's yonder. Clothes! you see every woman almost go in her lose gown, and why should not we have our clothes lose? The gold! we put that into a Scriveners hands, and he has cousend us. I have dwelled thou knowest along time in the Sub urbs of the conscience, and they are ever bawdy, but now my heart shall take a house within the walls of honesty. A pox on'em, I never prosperd since I did it. O! those days, those days. Disguised! how! drunk, Before any master under the Zodiac. Let her be hanged. Ther's money, fetch your clothes home, theres for you Avoid Vermin: give over our mistress! a man can not prosper worse if he serve the devil. Is he so! would we two might come acquainted with him. Weel give him no such cause. Then my Lord, he loves a Gatchpole does he not? Har. As a Bearward does a dog, a Gatchpole! he has sworn if ever he die, to make a Sergeant his heir, and a Yoeman his euerseer. Do not they whom he makes much on, for all his stroking their cheeks, lead hellish lives under him. O my elbow itches: will the devil keep the door? How! ath' chops. Yes, yes, I, I. Oh inueaglingrascall, I am rauishd. Hang they. I'll see they hanged first. Suppose this she, and that I had no hands, here's my teeth. But will not you be there sir. Sure lie cannot choose but have a horrible number of servants. A Lords suit! I would not give up the cloak of your service to meet the splayfoot estate of any leftey'd knight above the Antipodes, because they are unlucky to meet. Orany other member that has no legs. If I meet one that's more the ̄ my match, & that I can not stand in their hands, I must & will creep on my knees. Nay if we come to malling once, puh, How! my Mistress! I begin to have a Christians heart, made of sweet butter, I melt, I cannot strike a woma ̄ . Not I, unless she scratch, bum my mistress! Whats that? I doubt me I shall have no sweet buttet in me. If we be Cuckolds. I desire but one inch longer, The first thing I do I'll take her Over the lips. Then I know where isle hit her. He come upon her with rounce, robble-hobble, and thwicke thwack thirlety bouncing. Oh mine arms, I cannot list'em to my head. No sir, not the bridge of her nose fallen, 'tis full of Iron work. Hang us! master Harpax, what a devil shall we be thus used. I thank you. I, I, if no woman can endure my sighed, away with me. Scurvy ones, when thou Wertenberg drunk. Bawdy Priapus, the first schoolmaster that taught Butchers how to stick pricks in flesh, and make it swell, thou knowest was the only Ningle that I cared for under the Moon, but since I left him, to follow a scur vy Lady, what with her praying and our fasting, if now I come to a wench & offer to use her any thing hardly (cel ling her being a Christian she must endure) she presently handles me as if I were a clove, & cleaves me with disdain as if I were a Calves head. Right, the quarters of Christians are good for not thing but to feed Crows. What of all this? No, nor no words from you of too much dam ming neither; I know women fell themselves daily, and are knied out for silver, why may not we then betray a scurvy mistress for gold. I to my sweet placket. Yes, if his horns once get into the codpiece,