A place with my Neighbours at whiping the Cat.

_All Sing._

Room for good Noses the best in our Town,
Come fill the Pot Hostess, your Ale it is Brown:
For his Nose, and thy Nose, and mine shall not quarrel,
So long as one Gallon remains in the Barrel.

_The SHARPEST._

My Nose is the Sharpest good Neighbours mark well,
The smoak of a Banquet three Mile I can smell;
Forged and shaped so sharp at the End,
Makes known that I pass not what others do spend.

Yet must my Nose spiced most orderly be,
With Nutmegs and Ginger, or else 'tis not for me;
And so to the bottom the same I commit,
Of every Man's cup whereas I do sit.

My Nose is the foremost you see at each Feast,
Of all other Noses the principal Guest:
Then let my Nose challenge as sharp as it shows,
The chiefest of every good and bad Nose.

_All Sing._

Room for, _&c._

_The BROADEST._

My Nose is the Broadest how like you Sir, that,
It feeds on good Liquor and grows very fat;
For like to a Panack it covers my Face,
To make other Noses the more in disgrace.

And look how it glisters like Copper-smith's Hall,
To which our good Noses are summoned all;
When if that the Colours hold out not good red,
A Fine must be levied and set on their Head.

For having the Broadest and fairest to the Eye,
The Sergeant of Noses appointed am I;
Then let my Nose challenge the chiefest from the rest,
Of all other Noses the Broadest is best.
_All Sing._

Room for good Noses the best in our Town,
Come fill the Pot Hostess, your Ale it is Brown;
For his Nose, and thy Nose, and mine shall not quarrel,
So long as one Gallon remains in the Barrel.

_The_ LUDGATE _Prisoners._

[Music]

Noble King _Lud_,
Full long hast thou stood,
Not framed of Wood, but of Stone
Of Stone sure thou art,
Like our Creditors Heart,
That regards not our sorrowful Moan.

Within the Gate,
They cry at the Grate,
Pray Remember our Fate and shew Pity;
The poor and distress'd,
Who in Bonds are oppress'd,
Entreat the relief of the City

In Threadbare Coats,
We tear our Throats,
With pitiful Notes that would move
All Creatures, but Brutes,
To give ear to our Suits,
And themselves like true Christians approve.

But in vain we cry,
With a Box hanging by,
Good Sirs cast an Ey