A Sheriff at lower end o’ th’ board Cries Masters all hear me a word, A bolt Ile onely shoot, We shall have Executions store Against some gallants now gone o’re, Wherefore good brethren look to’t. 24. The rascall Sergeants fleering stand, Wishing their Charter reacht the Strand, That they might there intrude; But since they are not yet content, I wish that it to Tyburn went, So they might there conclude. 25. An Alderman both grave and wise Cries brethren all let me advise, Whilst wit is to be had, That like good husbands we provide Some speeches for the Lady bride, Before all men go mad. 26. For by my faith if we may guesse Of greater mischiefs by the lesse, I pray let this suffice, If we but on men’s backs do look, And look into each tradesmans book You’l swear few men are wise. 27. Some thred-bare Poet we will presse, And for that day we will him dresse, At least in beaten Sattin, And he shall tell her from this bench, That though we understand no French, At _Pauls_ she may hear Lattin. 28. But on this point they all demurre, And each takes counsell of his furre That smells of Fox and Cony, At last a Mayor in high disdain, Swears he much scorns that in his reign Wit should be bought for mony. 29. For by this Sack I mean to drink, I would not have my Soveraign think for twenty thousand Crownes, That I his Lord Lieutenant here, And you my brethren should appear Such errant witlesse Clownes. 30. No, no, I have it in my head, Devises that shall strike it dead, And make proud _Paris_ say That little _London_ hath a Mayor Can entertain their Lady faire, As well as ere did they. 31. S. _Georges_ Church shall be the place Where first I mean to meet her grace, And there St. George shall be Mounted upon a dapple gray, And gaping wide shall seem to say, Welcome St. _Dennis_ to me. 32. From thence in order two by two As we to _Pauls_ are us’d to goe, To th’ Bridge we will convey her, And there upon the top o’ th’ gate, Where now stands many a Rascal’s pate, I mean to place a player. 33. And to the Princess he shall cry, May’t please your Grace, cast up your eye And see these heads of Traytors; Thus will the city serve all those That to your Highnesse shall prove foes, For they to Knaves are haters. 34. Down Fishstreet hill a Whale shall shoot, And meet her at the Bridges foot, And forth of his mouth so wide a Shall _Jonas_ peep, and say, for fish, As good as your sweet-heart can wish, You shall have hence each Friday. 35.