_Short._ I am gaul'd already, yet I will pray, may _London_
wayes from henceforth be full of holes, and Coaches crack their wheels,
may zealous Smiths so housel all our Hackneys, that they may feel
compunction in their feet, and tire at _High-gate_, may it rain
above all Almanacks till Carriers sail, and the Kings Fish-monger ride
like _Bike Arion_ upon a Trout to _London_.

_Hum._ At S. _Albanes_, let all the Inns be drunk, not an Host
sober to bid her worship welcom.

_Short._ Not a Fiddle, but all preach't down with Puritans; no meat
but Legs of Beef.

_Hum._ No beds but Wool-Packs.

_Short._ And those so crammed with Warrens of starved Fleas that
bite like Bandogs; let _Mims_ be angry at their S. _Bel-Swagger_,
and we pass in the heat on't and be beaten, beaten abominably, beaten
horse and man, and all my Ladies linnen sprinkled with suds and
dish-water.

_Short._ Not a wheel but out of joynt.

_Enter_ Roger _laugh-ing._

_Hum._ Why dost thou laugh?

_Rog._ There's a Gentleman, and the rarest Gentleman, and makes the
rarest sport.