PLUMPORRIDGE

O killing cruel sighed, yonder's a Fasting day: A lean spiny Rascal with a Dog in's belly, his very Bowels bark with hunger; avant, thy Breath stinks, I do not love to meet thee fasting, thou art nothing but wind, thy Stomach's full of Farts, as if they had lost their way, and thou made with the wrong end upward, Like a Dutch Maw, that dischar ges still into 'th Mouth! Sweet Master Doctor, look quickly upon his Water, that I may break the Urinal about his pate. Never Master Doctor, with any Fastingday, persuade me not. On, thereby hangs a tale, my M. Kersmasses. It is his water, sir, he's drawing on. I, that's true, sir, but then he took his bane, With choosing King and Queen; Ha made his Will already, here's the Copy. He could not give away much, sir, his chil dren have so consumed him before hand. A sweet allowance for a second brother. And if ever they do, I'll be hanged. There's Knaves enough a conscience to coo zen one Fool. We thank him heartily. They will be good beware in Lent, when flesh is forbid by Proclamation. I have seen him shoe the Mare forty times over. I, so has given they all for ought I see. But now what think you of his Water, sir? I have never a gift to give him, I'll be gone.