There, in thy smutty walls, o’errun with dock,
As ragged as thy smock,
With rusty, fusty fellows ever dwell.
But come, thou baggage fat and free,
By gentles called Festivity,
And by us rolling kiddies, Fun,
Whom Mother Shipton, one by one,
With two Wapping wenches more,
To skipping Harlequino bore:
Or whether, as some deeper say,