Philip Fleming and Hance have danc'd a pretty dance,
That all is now spent out.
And now a great mischance came on while they did prance:
They lie sick of the gout.
And in a 'spital-house, with little Laurence louse,
They be fain for to dwell:
If they eat a moisel of souse, or else a roasted mouse,
They think they do fare well.
But as for Peter Pickpurse, and also Cuthbert Cutpurse,
You saw them both right now: