Stir, and as I have a life, ye goe to prison,
To prison, without pitie instantly,
Before ye speak another word to prison.
I have a better Guard without, that waits;
Do you see this man, Don Curate? 'tis a Paratour
That comes to tell ye a delightfull story
Of an old whore ye have, and then to teach ye
What is the penaltie; Laugh at me now Sir,
What Legacie would ye bequeath me now,
(And pay it on the nail?) to fly my fury?