_Cook._ These are the youths you look for, And, pray my honest friends, be not so hasty, There will be nothing done till we come, I assure you. _3 Boy._ Here's a wise hanging; are there no more? _Butl._ Do you hear, Sir? you may come in for your share if you please. _Cook._ My friend, if you be unprovided of a hanging, You look like a good fellow, I can afford you A reasonable penny-worth. _2 Boy._ Afore, afore, Boys, here's enough to make us sport. _Yeom._ 'Pox take you, Do you call this sport? are these your recreations? Must we be hang'd to make you mirth? _Cook._ Do you hear? You Custard Pate, we go to't for high Treason, An honourable fault: thy foolish Father Was hang'd for stealing Sheep. _Boys._ Away, away, Boys. _Cook._ Do you see how that sneaking Rogue looks now? You, Chip, Pantler, you peaking Rogue, that provided us these Necklaces; you poor Rogue, you costive Rogue, you. _Pant._ Pray, pray, fellows. _Cook._ 'Pray for thy crusty soul? where's your reward now, Goodman Manchet, for your fine discovery? I do beseech you, Sir, where are your Dollers? Draw with your fellows and be hang'd. _Yeom._ He must now; For now he shall be hang'd first, that's his comfort, A place too good for thee, thou meal-mouth'd Rascal. _Coo._ Hang handsomly for shame, come, leave your praying, You peaking Knave, and dye like a good Courtier, Dye honestly, and like a man; no preaching, With I beseech you take example by me, I liv'd a lewd man, good People. 'Pox on't, Dye me as if thou hadst din'd, say Grace, and God be with you. _Guard._ Come, will you forward? _Cook._ Good Mr. Sheriff, your leave, this hasty work Was ne'r done well; give us so much time as but to sing Our own Ballads, for we'll trust no man, Nor no tune but our own; 'twas done in Ale too, And therefore cannot be refus'd in Justice. Your penny-pot Poets are such pelting thieves, They ever hang men twice; we have it here, Sir, And so must every Merchant of our Voyage. He'll make a sweet return else of his Credit. _Yeom._ One fit of our own mirth, and then we are for you. _Guard._ Make haste then, dispatch. _Yeom._ There's day enough, Sir. _Cook._ Come, Boys, sing chearfully, we shall ne'r sing younger. We have chosen a loud tune too, because it should like well. The SONG. _Come, For[t]une's a Whore, I care not who tell her,_ _Would offer to strangle a Page of the Celler,_ _That should by his Oath to any Mans thinking,_ _And place, have had a defence for his drinking;_ _But thus she does still, when she pleases to palter,_ _Instead of his Wages, she gives him a Halter._