O. K. Le' me see, there was none hang'd out of our house since Brute,
I ha' search't both Stow, and Hollinshead.
Wit. O Sir.
O. K. I'll see what Polychronicon sayes anon too.
Wit. 'Twas a miraculous fortune that I heard on't.
O. K. I would thou'dst never heard on't.
Wit. That's true too,
So it had ne'er been done; to see the luck on't,
He was ev'n brought to Justice Aurums threshold,
There had flew'n forth a Mittimus straight for Newgate;
And note the fortune too, Sessions a Thursday,
Jury cull'd out a Friday, Judgment a Saturday,
Dungeon a Sunday, Tyburne a Munday,
Miseries quotidian ague, when't begins once,
Every day pulls him, till he pull his last.
O. K. No more, I say, 'tis an ill theam: where left you him?
Wit. He's i'th' Constables hands below i'th' Hall, Sir,
Poor Gentleman, and his accuser with him.
O. K. What's he?
Wit. A Judges Son 'tis thought, so much the worse too,
He'l hang his enemy, an't shall cost him nothing,
That's a great priviledge.