Now I find by thy smell, that thou camest from hell,
and I fear thou hast stole my chariot.
The next that came by was a Chimney Sweeper,
with poles, his brooms, and shackles,
What meanest thou, Man, the Devil he said,
that thou usest all those tackles?
I pry thee gentle Blade, tell me thy trade,
thy face it is so besmeared,
Hadst thou been so black, and no tools at thy back,