And let me once more toute thy glaziers again.
On Redshanks and Tibs[317] thou shalt every day dine,
And if it should e’er be my hard fate to trine[318]
I never will whiddle, I never will squeek[319],
Nor to save my Colquarron[320] endanger thy neck.
Then once more, my Doxy, be kind and retoure,
And thou shalt want nothing that lies in my pow’r.
The vein of sentiment that pervades this lament is almost too fine to be genuine in such a production.
The Pickpockets’ Chaunt.