BARKER

Y are not a proclamation that every man is bound to take notice on, And I cannot tell who you are by instinct. And you return fraught home with the rich devices Fashions of steeples, and the situations Of galouses, and wit no doubt a bushel, What price are Oats in Venice ? Were Asses. Had not you land once? As how? And did you fell it all? And so by consequence in three months your estate Will be five times as much or quintupled. Kingdoms I warrant. What think you of Jerusalem? If you would purchase that, and bring it nearer, The Christian Pilgrimss would be much obliged to ye, When did you wash your socks? Then 'tis your breath, to your lodging and perfume it, You'll tell the sweeter lies to them that will Loose so much time to ask about your travel, You wonot fell your debts? Have you as much left in ready cash as will Keep you and this old troule a fortnight longer, Die, and forgive the world, thou mayest be buried, And would the Church-cloth, if you can put in Security, the Parish shall be put To no more charge, dost thou hope to have a penny Of thy own money back, is this and age Of five for one, die ere the town takes notice, There is a hideous woman carries ballets, And has a singing in her head, take heed And hang thy self, thou mayest not hear the time, You remember Coriate. We'll would more verses o'thy travels Coxcomb, Books shall be sold in bushels in Cheap side, And come in Like the Peascods, wain loads full Of thee, and thy man Apple John that looks As he had been a sevennight in the straw A ripening for the market, farewell Rusiting, Thou art not worth my spleen, do not forget My counsel, hang thy self, and thou goest off Without a Sessions. Exit. SO so, yau'e a precious time on't. And do they both affect you. And you did praise their modesty. You did, and they believed. Do not Do not believe it my young Lord, theyle make Fools of a thousand such, they do not love you. They are women, Thats a reason, and may satisfy you, They cannot love a man. Themselves, And all little enough, they have a trick To conjure with their eyes, and perhaps raise A masculine spirit, but lay none. Would you were half so honest. Yes when I make legs And faces Like such fellows as you are. I'll come again when you would done your Iygge. I shall laugh at you both, and I stay. Well enough for the dogge-dayes, but have You no other dancing for the Winter, a man May freeze and walk thus. Pardon me my Lord. I shall never endure it, pox upon him. I shall break his fiddle. A pox upon your legs, isle no more. I'll kick him to death, and bury him in a Base-violl Jackalent. Go, yar'e and impertinent Lord, and I will be revenged Hum? How is this, if I have wit To apprehend, this Lady does not hate me? I have professed a cinicke openly, This language melts, I'll visit her again. Lady command. To dance? What pretends this to dance, theres something in't, I've revenged my self already upon my Lord, Yet deeper with my Lady is the sweeter, Something must be resolved. Exit. I pay for what I wear My sattaine Lord? your Wardrobe does not keep Me warm, I do not run oth' ticket with The Mercers wife, and leacher out my debts At country houses. I do not use to flatter such as you are, Whose bodies are so rotten, theyle scarce keep Their souls from breaking out, I write no odes Upon your Mistress to commend her postures, And tumbling in a coach towards Padington, Whither you hurry her to see the Pheasants, And try what operation the eggs have At your return, I am not taken with Your mighty nonsense, gleaned from Heathenish plays, Which leave a curse upon the Author for they, Though I have studied to redeem you from The infection of such books, which martyr sense Worse than and Almanac. But do not, I advice you do not. It will fallen heavy o'some body, if your Lordship Kick me, I shall not spare your cousin there. What do you think? Let it go round. Love you? why dee hear sir, I, I, What a pox should any man see in you, Once to think on you? love a squirt? Shall I tell thee what thou art good for? For nothing. Yes thou wot stop a breach in a mud wall, Or serve for a Priapus in the garden to Fright away crows, and keep the corn, bean shatter, Thou wot. Or thou wot serve at shrove tide to would thy legs Broken with penny trounchens in the street, 'Tis pity any Cock should stand the pelting, Aod such a Capon unpreferred. Cry mercy you're a kinsman to the Lord, A Gentleman of high and mighty blood. Dost hear? for all this I will undertake To thrash a better man out of a wench. That travels with her butter milk to market Between two dorsers, any day oth' week, My twice sod tail of green fish, I will do't Or lose, my inheritance, tell me, and do not stammer, When Wertenberg thou cudgeled last? what woman beat thee? Thou art the town top, A boy will set thee up, and make thee spin Home with and Eeleskinne, do not marry, do not, Thy wife will coddle thee, and serve thee up In Plataeae with Sugar and Rose water to Him that had the grace to cuckold thee; And if Pythagoras transmigration Of souls were true, thy spirit should be tenant To a horse. A switch and spur would do some good upon you, Why dost thou enterfare, get the grincomes, go, And straddle Like a gentleman that wood Not shame his kindred, but what do I Loose time with such a puppy? I would speak with you, Be not too busy with your Lordship's legs, I'll tell you somewhat. I bestowed A visit on the Ladies which you wot on, They have their wits still, and resolve to keep they, They wonot hang themselves for a young Lord, Nor grow into consumption, other men Have eyes, and nose, and lips, and handsome legs too: So fare you well Lord, my I left your kick With your cousin buy buy otter. Exit. Yowl know me. Omnes, Barker. No more, the Cynic, I protest You have converted me. I am the man you did encourage Madam To learn to dance, I shall do better shortly, Your love will perfect me, and make me soft, And smooth as any Reveller. You are a Witch, I'll justify it, and there is not One honest thought among the whole Sex of you, Dee laugh, lose witted Ladies, there are not In hell such furies, that's a comfort yet To him that shall go thither, he shall have Less torment after death then he finds here. Your wit has God the squirt too, I'll traduce Your Ball for this, and if there be a post, That dares write mischief, look to be worse Then executed. Exit. ANd what made you to undertake this voyage Sweet Signior Freshwater. My Lord commends him to ye. The Lord, the fine, the wanton dancing Lord, The Lord that plays upon the Gittern, and sings, Leaps upon tables, and does pretty things, Would have himself commended. He loves you both, he told me so, And laughs behind a vilard at your frailty, He cannot love that way you imagine, And Ladies of the game are now no miracles. You wood not, and you knew as much as I. I would been acquainted with his body Would known his baths and physic. Wonder that a Satire can Put off wildness and turn man, Love, such miracles can do, But this owes it self to you Bright Lady.