Fidler. Under your masterships correction, I can sing
The Duke of Norfolk, or the merry Ballad
Of Diverus and Lazarus, the Rose of England,
In Creet when Dedimus first began,
Jonas his crying out against Coventry.
Tho. Excellent,
Rare matters all.
Fid. Mawdlin the Merchants Daughter,
The Devil, and ye dainty Dames.
Tom. Rare still.
Fid. The landing of the Spaniards at Bow,
With the bloudy battel at Mile-end.
Tho. All excellent:
No tuning as ye love me; let thy Fidle
Speak Welch, or any thing that's out of all tune,
The vilder still the better, like thy self,
For I presume thy voice will make no trees dance.
Fid. Nay truly, ye shall have it ev'n as homely.
Tho. Keep ye to that key, are they all abed trow?
Lan. I hear no stirring any where, no light
In any window, 'tis a night for the nonce Sir.
Tho. Come strike up then: and say the Merchants daughter,
We'l bear the burthen: proceed to incision Fidler. [Song.