A Sirs thes eyr has a mickle geod savour. Iha creept thus firr intolth' Kingdom, like an Erivigg intoll a mons lug, and sall as herdly be gat oout. Ise sa seff here as a Sperrow under a Penthoowse. Let the Sheriffo Cumberlond gee hang himsell ins own gartropts, Ise ferr enough off him, ans fellow Officer th' hangman noow. I a Scot Theff may pass for a trow Mon here; Aw the emp­ty Weomb and thin hide I full oft bore in Scotland, an the geod fare I get here! Be me saw Ise twa yards gron about sin I cam fro Scot­lond, the Deele split me gif I cam at thee mere Scotlond. Ise eene noow ny the bonny Court, wur meny a Scot lad is gron fro a Mag­got ta a bran Goose; marry Ise in geod pleight. Weele, Scotlond, weele, tow gaff st me a mouth, but Anglond mon find me met; 'tis a geod soile geod feith, an gif aw my Contremon wod plant here, th'od thrive better thon in thair non.

In the foule Deels name wha's yon? a sud be me Contremon by's scratin an scrubbin; A leokes like Scotlond it sell, bar an naked; A carries noought bet tha walth o Can aboot him, filth an Virmin.

Aw Scotlond, Scotlond, wa worth tha tim I cam oout o thee; Ise like tha wandering Jew ha worn my hoofes sa thin as pau­per, [Page 2] and can get ne shod for um; Anglond has geod sooft grond, bet tha peple ha mickle hard hearts; Aw Billy, Billy, th'adst better ha tane tha stripe for stelling in Scotlond (bet thot 'tis sin ta rob the spet­tle) an ha thriv'd by't, than ta come ta be hangd here, or stervd; tis keen Justace a mon sud dee sick a deeth for macking use o his hands, I ha ne oder mamber woorth ought.

On's mon what gar thee in these pickle? how camst hither?

Een on me ten toes sir, and thay err worn oout now, thay'l ser me ne longer.

Wha tha Deele sall mend'um? sham faw thee, a Scot an cannot shift.

A lack sir, a mon mo not stell here for's neck, and Ise mickle sham ta beg.

How mon not bag! Ons th'art nen a me Contremon than.

Ey marry that am I, geod feith Ise a Scot, an boorn at Andra keddin.

I thoought fa be thy iddle leife, what gar thee cam hither?

A lack mon I sud a bein whopt aboot tha Toown o Barwick for theiffing in Scotlond, bet brock gale and scapt it.

Hadst tow tha conscienc ta stell fro thy own Contre, an hast noot tha sece ta bag in an oder? fy mon, fy. Ons hoow thinkst leive? Leoke her mon, leok her, sa tha vertu o bagging

A sir d'yee drop, d'yee drop at mooth sir?

Ey sir, sike a seight may mack a mon sown.

Sow up your chops in tha Deeles nam, gif you cannot bag ye sall not eat sir.

Geod feith an I ha noot eat un morsell thes twa daies, cam awey mod, cam awey.

Nee, nee, sir stey your fercnes, keep your fangs off sir, yee ma ha tha mang.

Ne geod feith, Ise a clere skind lad.

Bet monstrous lozy.

Dooubt not that sir, thay'l pin ta death sir, for I ha noought ta fed 'um bet Sken, an that's twa toough for thair teth—cam awey mon, sum cherete good Contremon.

Weele set doowne—leoke thee here mon,

thes gis tha leg o a Anglish Prest.

Sey yee sa mon.

Reight weele thay bein mad up o Cappon and whit broth▪ thay mack their carcase fat, bet their folls len; d'yee thenk S. Andra wad a fe [...]ted la mickle gif a cud a gat sike met as thes▪ Ne, ne, by me saw Ise hang than; he was stervd, thay fare deliciously; he wos [...]oowzy, and hod no sheft, they bien buried aleife in fin lenin an lown sleeffes▪ [...]he stunk abo grond, they bien swetten'd leiving an deed, abo an under gron; A me saw S. Andra had her don sa meny marvailes gif a h [...]d stuft his carcase la full as thay.

Geod feith I main pass for a sent ten, for me carcase is bar an thin enough.

Ey for sent Theff, for he ner did mirackle—thes Torky leg cam fro a Merchants Table, thes Widgins wing fro a Citzens, an thes Gooses leg fro a Lawyers.

Bred, thay mack mere preambl 'boot thair boody then aw tha peple in Cristendum de aboot thair saws, how hadst tow tha fece ta speeke at sa meny dores mon?

A sir, I sall tach yee ta bag bravely, mind ye me noow sir, I stoll twa Coows fro me Contremon and gat tham agat ta Comber­lond ta seele, bet tha plaggy shriefe gar tham tack fro me, an sent me toll tha gale, bet I gat loose, an sa cam froward, an in tha Noorth I met a iddle Turnies lod, wha mad me thes Certifice, an sat aw those Jestece nams tol't, that tha shreife o Comberlond had den me mickle wrong, an sa Ise cam up toll th' King for Jestece.

Geod feith wad I had sike an oder.

Cam awey mon, hest thee, fill thy weomb, and get thee on you sid mon, an Ise kep o thes, and sa nen fall scap us—hark ye me mon, you mon tell 'am you cam o geod parentage, an ha lost aw your siller as ye cam for Anglond—you mon speeke a by mon, an noot lick a Mole under gron pest herring.

Weele, weele, Ile be avis'd be you, gif you far weele I fall noot far amiss.

Gang awey mon, gang awey mon, seest tow, seest tow yon braw mon tofore thy eyne.

—Bless your honor, Ise speeke a word or twa ta your honor.

My honour▪—Pox on your fawning hide, what would you have with me and be hang'd?

—Ne, ne, sir I pray your honor wax noot wrothfull, Ise a mon o geod ranck in my own Contre, an ha kept geod beasts.

I, for some bodies else, thou dost not look as though thou ere wert worth one.

Ne, ne, sir, me non proper geods geod feith; I cam wi mickle siller in me purss ta Englond, weele clad.

With some old Curtaines that bore S. Andrews story, or chil­drens blanquets stoll, and turn'd to Trowsies.

Ne geod feith, I ha een bien robd o aw.

Rob thee! of what? had he a mind to be lowsie? but this is an Engine laid to draw a peece of silver to you, is't not so?

Your Honor speekes mickle weele.

—There—there's some of your Countrey men at Court lives better by this trade than you.

Un word ta your honor.

Hy day, another! I'm way laid, hast thou been rob'd too?

Ne, ne sir, ne, tha shriffe o Comberlond has dun me mickle wrong sir.

Whipt you about the Pigmarket?

A has tacken awey me Cows sir, an aw me geods, see here sir, I ha aw thos worthy Jestece nams ta testifie.

There is no begger like the Scotch-beger for tricks and impudence—Come what must discharge me from you sir, and your bellowing?

Geod feith sir I wont siller ta gat Jestece.

—Hadst thou had Justice done thee, thou hadst been hang'd long before this.

Bred, he's a fortune teller.

There—that will serve to buy you Oatmeale; sir there is no more of your Catterwalling Companions here abouts, is there?

Ne, ne sir, ant lick your honor.

Ne, ne, pox on your Nees and your Nose too; I'm glad I'm rid on you.

Noow sir, ye had noot tha fece ta bag, hoow lick ye it noow sir, what ga he toll ye.

Thes smaw peece o siller.

A geod begining mon, tolld a ye noot sum o our Contre men liev'd at Court by baggin.

I sea noow a Scot may ly by atorete, an beg wi permission— weele to Curt ta, an ly sa fest as tha beest o'um.

Be me saw an thats herd ta dee;

seest tow, seest tow mon yon brawe fellow, wi't his gold Rop aboots neck, an's long Cot lick a sark, geod feith he's ta herd for twantyo'um.

He's tha feul, gis a noot?

Ey, ey mon; A has feuld himsell intoll mickle fevor gif a feul himsell noot oout agen—sey a cams aneust us mon, wees speeke toll him—Bless your honor sir, bless your honor, Ise gled ta sea your honour in heelth.

Be me saw th'art a bold fellow.

I'm your own Contremon sir, I ken your honor mickle weele, bless your worship.

Kenst tow me mon?

Mickle weele an't lick your honour, I ken your honor weele enough, your honour is the Kings feul.

A mon, he kepes mere feules than I; bred, he's kepe tow ta gif tow canst feul him; how far Scot art tow?

Marry Ise a mickle wey oofe noow.

Bet I wad kne what tow wert boorn.

Gin me Moders Weomb sir forty years agast.

Ons mon speeke toll me i what plece o Scotlond wert tow boorn.

Geod feith gin meny sir, I ha bien boorn fro plece to plece a me Moders back sir, and ha seffered mickle sorrow.

The fow Deele tack thy large lug, wha was thy fader?

A mon sir surely.

The black Deele a was sur, whar liev'd a▪

A sir at a plece your honour kens mickle weele.

Whar mon, whar?

A sir, A sir what pleice caw ye that sir whar your honor nurst tha tyny babe wi wull on's back sir?

Oout tha faw Deele, oout Rog—bet wha art tow mon?

I'm een yar Contremon twa sir, cam ta bien a Curtier ta sir.

Ons a Curtier! a Carter, tha Hangmon, that Deele.

Ye ha geod friends thar sir, ye may dee mickle for us.

Dee mon! bred, he that sall dee for thee sall ha enough ta dee; art geod for oought? wha canst dee for thy sell?

Een what ye sea sir.

Oout this is base, it shams your Contre, mind ye me; wha o ye swaine ha mest wot?

He that can sheft beest.

Reight weele.

And that's een I, this feule had noot a fece ta bag toll I bol­dend hum.

Oout, oout mon, sham feect?

Ne, ne. I sall grew bold enough gif I fall get oought by't.

Gif ye had Clad sirs, what curs wad ye tacke to liew?

Ise cud mack tha King, bliss his Worship, an't lick your ho­nour, mickle geod Puttins an Potsloose.

I'd bien oth Mint, sir, I loove ta finger siller.

Weele sirs cam away wy me, for Contres sack Ise gat ye sum Purveyance, an sum lodging, and tan we fall find oout lum woork for ye emong 'um here.

Bless your honor for your benefaites.

First, You sweare not to make it any scruple of Conscience to cheat your Father; That you will hunt after young Heires, and when you have courst them out of wind, you'l refresh 'em with some Scri­vener, Broker, or Draper; That you'l keep alwaies three strings to your bow, to make it bend till it breake; That having gotten a Bub­ble or Byshop, a lad of the last adoption, that you make him sensi­ble of a Wench, though to the charge of a Surgeon, it being reason all trades should live, and if occasion be, winke at small faults. Next be sure to keep them continually at Game, or Drinking; Uurge 'em to quarrell, and then take up the businesse, but not without profit to the Brotherhood; That what quarrels soever arise among our selves, must not cause us to fight with one another, but the Coines of the Bubble or Byshop must make us friends; That you must not pay your Coachman but with kicks, unlesse your Bubble or Byshop do, and then he owes you a fare; That your Bubble, or Byshop, and you, keep but one Purse, though two Drabs; That when you have drei­ned him dry, you make him free, if he sue for it, if not let him keep Company with the Titteretues, and live upon the sin of Sodom; That you I take your chance of the day, where there is need of dip­ping, without grumbling.

Your cloak sir? how came it to be yours sir? I have one some where.

So sir, I thanke you twice; for once I care not if I put my Cloak into my pocket.

Let the house pay it selfe; dip, dip and be hang'd you that have Cloaks, am I bound to fill your insatiate Gorge eternally.

What Asses were we to let the mony ly so long, knowing his Rascally humour, he'l not pay a Penny when he's in drink— See what thou canst work him to.

For your part sirrah, Ile have you up for keeping of a Bawdy house.

Y'ar mickle braw sirs, y'ar mickle braw; bred, ye leoke mere lick Burgemasters noow thon hedg creepers; ken ye your sells sirs? ken ye your sells sirs?

Geod feith sir, gif aw that sud ken themsells, wad ken themsells, nen wad ken us; A me saw sir, I'd rader ha'um trast me thon ken me, fur gif thay sudken me reight, thay'd sea me deed tofore thay' trast me.

Y'ar mickle wise sir, ye ha rob'd a feul sur.

We wish you weele sir, we wish you weele.

Sey ye sa sir? y'ar vary cheretable; ken ye me sirs? On's, ye are gron see loofty you'l knee ne body; wha set you up in tha Deeles nam? wha, wha put thes gay fethers on your back? eene I, an noow yol flee awey ta tha Deele, Harke ye me sirs, gif ye bien sa high, Ise tack ye down wy a Plague ta ye; wha had y'ar intail'd Virmine tane off ye wy a murren? wha, wha gat ye a—

Oour saders and moders sir.

Did thay sa sir? bred, gif thay gat ye, thay ner cud gat feod enough for yar side Weombs; Are you provander prickt noow sirs? ha, wha am I? ha sirs, ha, wha am I?

O our geod friend sir, blisse you.

The Deele wound ye, sleight ye me? On's, Ise sa geod a mon gas aw in Scotlond, an ha mere siller in me purse.

Anglish stamp sir, I beleev't.

Ye beleeft! wha tha Deele cares for your beleeff?

Geod sir, geod sir be sober.

Bred, Ise not drunken; ha ye bien at cost wy me sirs? hah! Ise sall uncass ye sirs, an ge your Arse tha Ayre agen, are ye sa hot sirs? want ye a Cooler? Bred, Ise ge ye sick a Rattle wy a Rom ore tha Riggins sall mack your Ribs reore sirs.

Geod your honor put up your wroth, an wees buckle oour Wots; wees yar on Contremons ye knee weele enough.

An sud leove won oder; y'ave a geod Mester sir, an oour Con­tremon, wha macks mickle o you.

Bred, an Ise mack sa mickle o hum as I can.

He's a geod mon sir, and you ha wot enough.

Ken you that mon, ken you that? On's, an ye bien not wud ye ma ha wot ta chep enough; bet Ise ne body, my benefaits are noought woorth.

Y'ar aw body sir, wees at your Commandement.

Sey ye sa sir? why, noow ye speeke, be vis'd by me, anye sall oout wot 'um aw; mind ye me sirs, will ye be avis'd?

Sed ye sir, wy aw our harts.

Ise ha ye turn Dooctors.

Ise a Dooctor, a Dooctor; geod feith, wees mack braw Dooctors.

Mind me mon, mind me; Thes Kingdom's mickle sick, tha Curt o tha Cety, tha Cety o tha Curt, an tha Contre o beoth, an aw o' [...]m o tha Kirke, an tha Law; tha Kingdom's Livergron wy iddlnes an Raches, and noow noought can cur it bet a Scots Dooctor, ne matter for your skill.

Geod feith sir, wees ha skill enough ta bleede its siller vains Ise warrant ye.

Ha bet confidence, lye and dissemble handsomly.

Wees y'ar on Contremons sir, doobt it noot.

Tha nam o a Scot gis enough ta cur aw their maladies; ge 'um peson an thay'l tack it for a Cordall: perswad 'um thay ar sick thay'l beleeff ye, and gif ye mack 'um sick thay'l beleeff thare in beest helth, bet ye mon carry sem show o hollines wy ye, an profess aw for thayr geods.

Sa we sall sir, an tack'um whan we ha deon.

Billy sall gaing toll th' Contre, and tow salt kep behind, an bien Dooctor here, and gif tow hest wot enough tow canst noot wont werk.

Ne geod feith, I sall mack me sell werk enoough, for gif I can hel ne distampers Ise mack enoough emong 'um.

Cam awey than, cam awey.

No more trick than you see; I prethee meet me in Fish­street at the Feathers, where wee'l dine; there thou shalt see my friend, and Ile restore thy Cloake deare Townshift.

—Geod feith sir, an he's worth yours; I sall play him wy any Anglish Dooctor in the VVarld.

Planty an iddleness ha bred gross humours in you, whilke mon be pourged awey, or elke ye dee for't; bet Ise sall ge ye that sir, sall mack ye bare an leight enough.

Leoke mon, leoke aw thay bien sick o gis sike fin things as thes, fiev golden lads mon, fiev mere are woorth a Leards land sir; geod feith gif their veynes wul ran sike droops as thes wees drain um dry—A simple feuls, that ken noot whan th'are weele, bet wull bien wasting thair means toll set thair boodies oout o frame—a feuls, feuls.

Ne matter mon gif oought can be gut wy putting um oout o fram, tha Deele try his skill to put um in agen for Iocky.

Kepe off firs—kepe off, ga me wund toll speeke toll ye; Ise cam for aw your geods, mind ye me?

Very well, very well.

Ise cur aw diseases, aw manner o Malades, an sall tack noought o ye for me peyn bet your siller; Gif there bien er a Kirke Prest emong ye choak'd up wy Pluraltes o Benefaits, tha Poowder in thes pauper macks the Impostom breck, an tacks aw awey clere—Gif any Prest bien vext wy tha Babylonish mang, thes Purgation med in me non Contre, curs hum were he ner sa fer spent.

For our Doctor sir, for our Doctor.

For our Vicar.

For our Parson.

For our Curat.

For our Bishop, Prebends, and Curates.

Gif any emong ye bien troubl'd wy tha neyce o Organs in your lugs, thes poowder curs you for ever.

For our Town sir.

For ours too sir.

And ours, and ours sir.

And our whole County sir.

Gif eny emong ye bien blind wy tha seight o Lawn sleeves, thes cures and restores ye.

For my Landlord sir.

For mine too sir.

And mine.

And mine.

And mine.

Gif eny emong ye ha tha beon o a tith'd Soows babey stick in your wund pip, thes saw cur you stret, and tack aw awey.

For me sir.

For me too sir.

And me sir.

And me sir.

And me sir pray.

Gif eny emong ye bien troubl'd wy heart burnings, tha Poow­der in thes pauper curs ye stret.

For my Neighbour sir.

And mine sir.

And mine too sir, I pray.

And som for our whole Town good sir.

Gif eny o ye bien sore wy ore mickle burdens, an weary o your Riders, thes Poowder macks ye strong ta orethraw um, or ta bar greater.

For us all sir.

Gif eny o your stomacks bien opprest wy Law, thes pell sall remoove tha cause, an tack it awey. Gif eny bien hard boound, thes sall mack mickle free.

For my Landlord sir.

For mine too sir

And mine sir.

And mine sir.

And mine sir.

Gif eny emong ye bien trobl'd wy a scurvy mooth, thes tacks aw felth awey.

For my wife sir.

For mine sir.

And mine sir.

And mine sir.

And my Mistresse sir.

Gif eny bien trobl'd wy a loosnes, thes ties 'um fest as a Rope or hawter.

For my wife sir.

And mine sir.

And mine sir.

Geod Peple, noow I ha gau ye aw remedies ta your Malades, twa dees hence Ise sall bien her or noot ta sey whot operation thay ha had upon ye; Ise sur ye sall ha remedy or non; an sa far ye wall.

Farewell sir, farewell.

FY Mastres fy, geod feith y'ar mickle oout; I ga hum noought bet convenable stooff.

Y'are a Rascall, a Scotch Horseleech, a Doctor, a Dolt­head: Oh the madness of the men of these times; if any of them be but a little out of temper, none can set them right but a Scotch Doctor forsooth, as though all the English ones were fooles. But Sirrah, Sirrah, it is well known my husband

was never distempered, till he came acquainted with such a De-coy as you—Curse on the time—

Hang you Rascall, my Husband was never troubled with whimsies in his head, nor never rail'd against his Superiours; he was ever a quiet man, and an honest man, and had the love of the whole Court, and so had I too. Many a good turn have the good Gen­tlemen done me, which I must never expect now agen, so violent­ly my Husband railes against the Government. But if he suffer for't, thou shalt not weare a Nose to thy face; a Nose on thy face said I: Nay if there bee a sign-post in all this Town I'l hang thee on't— Ah poor heart.

Here hee comes—See what a pickle you have put him in; My fingers itch to come at thy face, that ugly

face of thine.

A me saw shee's a Deele, and wull spell aw my Market gif I ser her noot lick him; thes gis o tha sem powder, whilke gif sha smell ta, wull mack her sa lick him as may be.

Mistras ga me whil toll speeke toll ye; thes wudnes o his, cam fro tha corruption o his hart: Aw that I ga hum was sike as thes, be me saw smeel Laddy, smeel Laddy.

Hark you Husband, what is that you said but now? I beleev't, what was't? the King is pestilent, wilfull; hah; I was't so? why then, for ought I know, hee must bee beaten into better man­ners.

Bring forth your Prongs Neighbours; All men stand up for the truth: And he that will lie on the Sunday, is not to be tru­sted the week after, what say you Neighbours?

I say a Sundaies lie may go as far as a work-daies, my reason is, it has more leasure to travell.

For my part neighbours let them lie that will I have no more to doe with a lie, then a lie has to do with me; if any lies with my wife, it shall go hard but ile do as much with his.

I, if he have none Neighbour.

Why, if he have none Neighbour, I must go without; no man will be a slave I think.

A slave! who has such a mind let him have it still: For my part Neighbours, Ile worke hard, earn my bread with the sweat of my browes, none shall eat away the fruit of my labour, but I will sit down when it is done, and laugh, in despight of all the Kasars in the World.

Hold a pluck there Neighbour, 'tis ill playing with edge-tooles; that word despight comes not in handsomely, and may bring us all to the Pot.

What! have wee a scab'd sheep amongst us? lets cleere our flock of him.

Hold Neighbour, hold, I am for you with all my heart, but give me leave to speak to you; I am but a fool 'tis confest, but chil­dren and fooles tell truth sometimes, you know.

And what of that, and what of that.

I say again, 'tis dangerous medling with edge-tooles; there's store of trees here abouts, and there may bee Gibbets made of them, and you know well enough what fruit Gibbets bring forth; I say no more, but be carefull what you do.

Away with him, away with him.

One word more Neighbours, one word more; it is not well to mocke our Superiours, much worse to threaten them: for as I have heard, there was a suit at Law commenced about a Fart.

Ha, ha, ha, how man, how!

Why, I will tell you Neighbours, be but patient; there was a fellow, Ile not tell his name, was pissing against the wall, the Mayor came by, now you know the Proverb, tell a tale to a Mare, and 'twill let a fart; but here the case alters, for the fellow let the fart, and the Mayor took it in the nose, and caused the fellow to bee carried to the Town Hall, as Prisoner.

The Mayor was a Horse, or a Whorson knave, what's this to us?

Away with him, away with him, we will break the Cords of our slavery.

You'l faw sir intoll a Consumption very soon sir, gif ye tack noought ta kepe ye fro it; Aw the dreggs o Rome mon be tane fro ye.

Gead feith, gif he tack yee in hand sir, y'ar aw hole.

Y'ar ta fat at hart sir, Pluraletes bred bet iddlenes, an iddle­nes, bad humors; yee mon kepe a spar diet sir, an be brought lo wi Purgations sir, an whan tim sers ha sim Comfortives sir.

Sir, Mr Soongul'd desires you would come with the Doctor to him presently.

I sal swett hart, my Jo; Doctor, you mon ta Mr Soongul'd wi me.

Sir, ther's some Gentlemen in the next Room desires your Company.

make it up five and twenty, and you two shall cast Dice which payes it—are all parties agreed—I know

our noble friend will not be backward.

Ha ye wark for a Scot Sawger, wha ha bien aw tha Wirld ore ons ten toes; Ser'd aw Religions, an can tha better be o eny. I ha kil'd tha Whar a Babilon, Body an Saw, brent aw her Rawlecks wi tha feer o zeale. I can carry twa feces under won hood: I can be a Sent, an I can be a Deel, gif ye ha wirk for me; I ha seeme a powre a riches in me dees, but ha broought noought heom wi me bet St Andras Cross, want an Poverty.

A sir! the bonny siller came a pece, gif I tol'd um a tale, [Page 29] thay'd ga mickle heeds; geod feith won pell set'd aw malades.

An whot pell wos thot mon?

The Pell o sedition.

A, ken you thot mon? tha sam set tha Magistrat an's wife intoll feares an jealousies, turn'd tha insid o tha Kirkmon ooutwards, an noow's aw gall, tha Ceteson gis as bitter; tha Leyer cannot stond he's brought sa weeke wy me Purgations, and tha Curtier noot worth tha grond a goes on; I ha let aw his geod as weele as he's bad bleod oout.

Saw ye Gentlemen gif ye ha a mind ta bien saw'd, ken ye me sirs?

How sud we ken thee mon?

Wha, noot Scarefool your Contremon?

Whar hast bien mon?

Aw tha Wirld ore sirs, an noow aw pleces are wary o me; Ise cam ta Anglond toll seeke wirke.

Here's wirke enoough gif ye bien wise ta deele wy tha Ang­lish mon.

Geod feith Ise chet'um thay wern ner sa cheted, show me toll'um, whar liew thay?

In th' Cety, and Contre ta; marry, bet cam awey wy us mon, wees tack a drinck first, an tawke mere on't.

Cam awey Io, cam awey.

I, down with'em husband, down with 'em, they have stood long enough; I am sure their long standing have made you come short many a time and often, but I hope now husband you'l take 'em down a Button hole lower.

Am not I a man?

You think so husband, I warrant.

Why, a King's no more.

Nay, is he that husband? troth I dare say our man William is as good a man as the best of you; for as they say, a man is a man and he has but a hose on's head.

Well, I am resolv'd William shall forth.

Forth, how do you meane forth? I hope you will not leave me unprovided at home; you know your own business abroad, and I am certaine he can do your business at home better than your self— oh husbund, husband here's the Scotch Doctor.

Mr Doctor, what news Mr Doctor?

Nen geod sir, nen geod sir, bet me frond ha had hes cass pul'd ore his lugs.

By whom, by whom?

Wha, wha, bet tha prod Prelates sir; Ise tolld 'um o thair kna­very, an thay gar tack awey me brawery; bet thoough thay ha tac­ken awey me Cot, thay sall ner ta [...]k awey me conscience, that's holl an sound, an ned nen o thair pachings o thair preachments.

O wicked, wicked children of darkness!

Her's a frond o min sir, a mon a meight an mettell, wha ha en­dured meny a brunt and storme, he sall stond betwixt ye in aw harme.

I shall be glad of your acquaintance sir.

True, truly sir, you have a face like a man, you'l do the busi­ness I warrant, let you alone, but gently to the women sir, for we are twigs, and may be bow'd which way you list; meere tender twigs sir.

Bred, bet sam o ye bien toough enoough.

We are a long time indeed a bringing up, but then we are soone cast downe; women have tender hearts, and tender flesh, and tender consciences, though naughty men report that we have none; husband shall they walk into th'Parlor; I do love to enter into Dia­logue with these Gentlemen, they talke so prettily.

I, with all my heart.

You will meet with sir fine Plunder 'mong the Ladies; you shall dine with us too—you may make me amends with a Court smock; I look to weare one in truth, they are so fine and so perfum'd, it passes.

Wees tack ye ot yar word.

Nay, you may do't sirs, you may do't, you have warrant for't; 'tis well enough known, the Pompe of the Prelates, the Whore of Babylon her selfe in her feathers, the Kings of the earth commit fornication with her Plu [...]alities of Benefices makes men but idle, saies Mr Doctor, and idleness makes you fat, and fat makes you pursy, and so by consequence short winded; It is a trick of Rome to starve our Religion; Let Iezabell be brought before the Elders, and the whore of Babyilon to the Whipping post, let her have lash upon lash; let her smock be given to the Rag-men, it may come to be Pa­per, and her Condemnation writ in't; let the Whelpes and the Cubs be brought to the Stake, baite'um, baite'um, baite'um, I am your warrant saith Mr Doctor.

Master Doctor's an Ass.

Children you talk not like men, you are but midling Chri­stians, 'tis well known to the Parish.

That Bedlams fit for you.

Those that will follow me, let 'um follow me,

Hi, hi, hi, Stow the Frier, stow the Frier.

—For my part, I am but a man, and I owe but a death, [Page 33] let them take it, as they say they will, give 'um good on't, let them come, let them come—where are they? stand, stand, stand.

Husband now you talk of standing, pray let me lye down, and then let 'em do their worst, I defie 'em.

—And so do I, wee'l to the Terret, Woman, and there we are secur'd 'gainst Devill, and Pursevant.

—I'm weary'd off my legs with doing nothing but running up and down in e'ry Nooke and Corner like a Rat for feare of catching.

—They are comming, they are comming; let me come in woman, let me come in.

I would you would come in husband once, you have been out long enough to small purpose I'm sure.

Good sir, talk not to me of Worthies, my Father was none of the Nine; he ne'r kept Company with your Huffs, nor Puffs; be [Page 37] could drinke in a Taverne and ne're quarrell about the Reckoning; he liv'd without knocks, and dy'd in the love of his Parish.

What will you give him shall take up the business without loss to your honour?

BRed, thos Anglish ar Deeles, w'are aw lost men; Aw oour knavery is oout, nen wull tack oour parts; Tha Ceteson [...] hong thare heds doown lick bull rushes, an won noot bien sen for us.

Hoow cam thay in tha Deeles namsa aw o won mind? Ise sur Ise ded whot Ise cud toll mack 'um [...]et on oder ta deeth; tha Deele feere 'um, thar lick Serpans that gif ye smit 'um asunder wull joyne agen.

W'are aw lost, sheft, sheft, tha Deeles a comming toll tare tha Covnant sha yeer heeles, sha yeere heeles, spang awey sirs, spang awey.

On's gif tha men o War flee, what sall we hid our sells— Aw sir; sir.

Take them into your Custody, they are Your lawfull prize.

A sirs, a sirs, geod feith wees ment ne bad.

What Mr Doctors! have we found ye? who can cure the Citizen of his head ach but the Scotch Doctors? who their wives of the Tooth-ach but the Scotch Doctors? the Scotch Doctor is all in all, the Kirke will take no Physick but of the Scotch Doctor; the Country will be cheated by none but by the Scotch Doctor; the Court and Gentry will be begger'd by none but the beggerly Scotch Do­ctors; come away and be hang'd.

Mercy sirs, Mercy, Mercy, Mercy.

Hawd, hawd, hawd sir.

Y'are a mickle Gallant mon, Ise thra me swerd an hert at your non feet sir.

Noot a neustye sir, geod feith I leove a Anglish mon wy aw my hert. A sir, A sir, send aw reight, send aw reight—her tack me weppon, Ise your non Prisoner sir geod feith.

Gentlemen your noise has drawn Souldiers into the house, th'a [...]e comming up; as many as can get into that little Closet,

Where's all these Huffs—what you two make this noise? hurle Pots, breake Glasses, you are youths indeed; Is this a time of night for you to rant in? come you must with us.

Gentlemen, you may come forth, the coast is cleare.

Where's the two Gentlemen?

They have ta'ne 'em with 'em.

Did they pay the Reckoning.

No sir.

A pox upon you, why did you not aske'em for't?

I durst not sir, for feare they should say, the rest of their Company was above.

'Tis right, the Devil's on't, this was your doing Trapheire, Will you pay the Reckoning now?

Not a penny, Ile keepe unto my Oath, throw who shall dip or pay if you will.

Here's Dice, throw—twelve, hang ye Rascall

Now my Chance—'tis passable—throw.

Mine is the worst.

But mine's the worst of all—Sirrah Boy will you take this Cloake for your Reckoning?

I know not sir whether I shall or not.

You shall not sir, now, you know, as long as such Spankers last; what's to pay?

But thirty shillings sir.

The subjects on the which these Villaines practis'd their subtilties and deceits; first, I shall tender my Charge against 'em, then produce my evidence.

Mercy, mercy, mercy, wees leove tha Anglish mickle weele.

Hang 'em Rogues, they complaine they are pillaged, you made 'em not bare enough sirs, you should have taken their skins off too, they would have made monsters of us, but truly my husband is a Naturall man, and I am his own wife; I hope you do not thinke we are otherwise than we should be.

I have a husband here too, helpe his head, he was a Man once, and I was a Woman, as this Gentleman the Courtier knew well enough, but now I am no-body, thanke yo [...] pick-purses; [Page 51] Pray spare 'em not, I'm sure they would not spare me when time was, do what I could.

I, and hold it fast husband; had I a good thing to handle, I'd make much on't a long time I warrant you.