Tho’ he cannot take away our cole,
He rubbs us to the whit.
And when we come unto the whit,
For garnish[225] they do cry;
We promise our lusty comrogues
They shall have it by and bye;
Then ev’ry man, with his Mort[226] in his hand,
Is forc’d to kiss and part;
And after, is divorced away,
To the nubbing-cheat[227] in a cart.