Three merry Boys, and three merry Boys, and three merry Boys are we, As ever did sing in a hempen string under the Gallow-tree. II. _But I that was so lusty,_ _And ever kept my Bottles,_ _That neither they were musty,_ _And seldome less than Pottles;_ _For me to be thus stopt now,_ _With Hemp instead of Cork, Sir,_ _And from the Gallows lopt now,_ _Shews that there is a fork, Sir,_ _In death, and this the token,_ _Man may be two ways killed,_ _Or like the Bottle, broken,_ _Or like the Wine, be spilled._ Three merry Boys, &c. III. _Oh yet but look on the Master Cook, the glory of the Kitchin,_ _In sowing whose fate, at so lofty a rate, no Taylor e'r had stitching,_ _For though he makes the Man, the Cook yet makes the Dishes,_ _The which no Taylor can, wherein I have my wishes,_ _That I who at so many a Feast, have pleas'd so many tasters,_ _Should now my self come to be drest, a dish for you my Masters._ Three merry Boys, &c. _Cook._ There's a few Copies for you; now farewel friends: And good Mr. Sheriff let me not be printed With a brass Pot on my head. _But._ March fair, march fair, afore, good Captain _Pantler_. IV. _Pant._ _Oh man or beast, or you at least,_ _That wear or brow or antler,_ _Prick up your ears, unto the tears_ _Of me poor_ Paul _the Pantler,_ _That thus am clipt, because I chipt_ _The cursed Crust of Treason_ _With Loyal Knife; Oh doleful strife,_ _To hang thus without reason._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Aubrey, _and_ Latorch.