Cook. 'Pray for thy crusty soul? where's your reward now,
Goodman Manchet, for your fine discovery?
I do beseech you, Sir, where are your Dollers?
Draw with your fellows and be hang'd.
Yeom. He must now;
For now he shall be hang'd first, that's his comfort,
A place too good for thee, thou meal-mouth'd Rascal.
Coo. Hang handsomly for shame, come, leave your praying,
You peaking Knave, and dye like a good Courtier,
Dye honestly, and like a man; no preaching,
With I beseech you take example by me,
I liv'd a lewd man, good People. 'Pox on't,
Dye me as if thou hadst din'd, say Grace, and God be with you.
Guard. Come, will you forward?
Cook. Good Mr. Sheriff, your leave, this hasty work
Was ne'r done well; give us so much time as but to sing
Our own Ballads, for we'll trust no man,
Nor no tune but our own; 'twas done in Ale too,
And therefore cannot be refus'd in Justice.
Your penny-pot Poets are such pelting thieves,
They ever hang men twice; we have it here, Sir,
And so must every Merchant of our Voyage.
He'll make a sweet return else of his Credit.
Yeom. One fit of our own mirth, and then we are for you.
Guard. Make haste then, dispatch.
Yeom. There's day enough, Sir.
Cook. Come, Boys, sing chearfully, we shall ne'r sing younger.
We have chosen a loud tune too, because it should like well.
The SONG.