To all kind of estates I mean for to trudge.
Ambidexter, nay, he is a fellow if ye knew all:
Cease for awhile; hereafter hear more ye shall.
Enter three Ruffians, Huff, Ruff, and Snuff, singing.
Huff.
Gog’s flesh and his wounds, these wars rejoice my heart;
By his wounds, I hope to do well, for my part:
By Gog’s heart, the world shall go evil, if I do not shift;
At some old carl’s bouget I mean for to lift.
Ruff.