ves by shifts; yet swears by no small oaths, 385.

Skurf by his nine-bones swears, and well he may, 390.

Slouch he packs up, and goes to several fairs, 399.

Snare, ten i' th' hundred calls his wife; and why? 395.

Sneape has a face so brittle that it breaks, 383.

Spenke has a strong breath, yet short prayers saith, 403.

Spokes, when he sees a roasted pig, he swears, 405.

Spunge makes his boasts that he's the only man, 389.

Spur jingles now, and swears by no mean oaths, 408.

Strutt, once a foreman of a shop we knew, 378.

Sudds launders bands in piss, and starches them, 381.

Tap, better known than trusted as we hear, 401.

Teage has told lies so long that when Teage tells, 403.

That was the proverb. Let my mistress be, 383.

The eggs of pheasants wry-nosed Tooly sells, 393.

The staff is now greas'd, 410.

This lady's short, that mistress she is tall, 389.

To cleanse his eyes, Tom Brock makes much ado, 382.

To loose the button is no less, 398.

To paint the fiend, Pink would the devil see, 381.

Thou writes in prose how sweet all virgins be, 400.

Tom Blinks his nose is full of weals, and these, 401.

Tom shifts the trenchers; yet he never can, 399.

Trigg, having turn'd his suit, he struts in state, 397.

Truggin a footman was; but now, grown lame, 403.

Umber was painting of a lion fierce, 393.

Unto Pastillus rank Gorgonius came, 407.

Up with the quintell, that the rout, 406.

Urles had the gout so, that he could not stand, 394.

Vinegar is no other, I define, 405.

We read how Faunus, he the shepherds' god, 406.

Were there not a matter known, 388.

What are our patches, tatters, rags, and rents, 405.

What is the reason Coone so dully smells, 394.

What made that mirth last night, the neighbours say, 395.

When Jill complains to Jack for want of meat, 391.

When others gain much by the present cast, 385.

When Pimp's feet sweat, as they do often use, 409.

Wherever Nodes does in the summer come, 400.

Who to the north, or south, doth set, 388.

Who with thy leaves shall wipe, at need, 375.

Why walks Nick Flimsey like a malcontent! 387.

Wither'd with years, bed-rid Mamma lies, 380.

With paste of almonds, Syb her hands doth scour, 393.

Y'ave laughed enough, sweet, vary now your text, 382.

You say, you love me; that I thus must prove, 383.

You say you're young; but when your teeth are told, 3