There are some poor Labourers, that perhaps
Once in seven year, with helping one another,
Produce some few pin'd-Butter-prints, that scarce hold
The christning neither.
Lop.
Your Gallants, they get Honour,
A strange fantastical Birth, to defraud the Vicar,
And the Camp Christens their Issues, or the Curtizans,
'Tis a lewd time.
Die.