With such base cloaths, 'tis e'en a shame to see't;
My sleeves are like some morris-dauncing fellow,
My stockings idiot-like, red, greene, and yellow:
My breeches like a paire of lute-pins be,
Scarce buttock-roome, as every man may see.
Like three-penie watchmen three of us doe stand,
Each with a rustie browne-bill in his hand:
And Clubs he holds an arrow, like a clowne,
The head-end upward, and the feathers downe.
Thus we are wrong'd, and thus we are agriev'd,