Or Partridges are kept, see they be mine,
Or straight I seize on all your priviledge,
Places, revenues, offices, as forfeit,
Call in your crutches, wooden legs, false bellyes,
Forc'd eyes and teeth, with your dead arms; not leave you
A durty clout to beg with o' your heads,
Or an old rag with Butter, Frankincense,
Brimston and Rozen, birdlime, blood, and cream,
To make you an old sore; not so much soap
As you may fome with i'th' Falling-sickness;
The very bag you bear, and the brown dish
Shall be escheated. All your daintiest Dells too
I will deflower, and take your dearest Doxyes
From your warm sides; and then some one cold night
I'le watch you what old barn you go to roost in,
And there I'le smother you all i'th' musty hay.

_Hig._ This is tyrant-like indeed: But what would _Ginks_
Or _Clause_ be here, if either of them should raign?

_Clau._ Best ask an Ass, if he were made a Camel,
What he would be; or a dog, and he were a Lyon.

_Ginks._ I care not what you are, Sirs, I shall be
A Beggar still I am sure, I find my self there.

_Enter_ Goswin.

_Snap._ O here a Judge comes.