By doctors, quakers, dukes, divines.
Unless these villainous Perkineans
Are forthwith hurl’d to Nick’s dominions,
Those wicked tractors, I’m afraid,
Will overturn the doctor’s trade.
And then, alas! your worships may
Be forced to moil the live long day,
With hammer, pickaxe, spade, or shovel,
And nightly tenant some old hovel.
Or, destitute of food and lodging,