But vurst a Warrant ich will get From Master Captaine, that a vet Chill make a shrewd a do: Vor then chave power in any place, To steal a Horse without disgrace, And beat the owner too. Ich had zix oxen tother day, And them the Roundheads vetcht away, A mischiefe be their speed: And chad zix horses left me whole, And them the Cabbaleroes stole: Chee voor men be agreed. Here ich doe labour, toyl and zweat, And dure the cold, with dry and heat, And what dost think ich get? Vaith just my labour vor my pains, The garrisons have all the gains, Vor thither all’s avet. There goes my corne and beanes, and pease, Ich doe not dare them to displease, They doe zo zwear and vapour: When to the Governour ich doe come, And pray him to discharge my zum, Chave nothing but a paper. U’ds nigs dost think that paper will Keep warme my back and belly fill? No, no, goe vange thy note: If that another year my vield No profit doe unto me yield, Ich may goe cut my throat. When any money chove in store, Then straight a warrant comes therefore, Or ich must blundred be: And when chave shuffled out one pay, Then comes another without delay, Was ever the leek azee? [like] If all this be not grief enow, They have a thing cald quarter too, O’ts a vengeance waster: A pox upon’t they call it vree, [“free quarters”] Cham zure they make us zlaves to be, And every rogue our master. _The High-way man’s Song._ I keep my Horse, I keep my Whore, I take no Rents, yet am not poore, I traverse all the land about, And yet was born to never a foot; With Partridge plump, and Woodcock fine, I do at mid-night often dine; And if my whore be not in case, My Hostess daughter has her place. The maids sit up, and watch their turnes, If I stay long the Tapster mourns; The Cook-maid has no mind to sin, Though tempted by the Chamberlin; But when I knock, O how they bustle; The hostler yawns, the geldings justle; If maid be sleep, oh how they curse her! And all this comes of, _Deliver your purse sir_. _Against Fruition_, &c. There is not half so warme a fire In the Fruition, as Desire. When I have got the fruit of pain, Possession makes me poore again, Expected formes and shapes unknown, Whet and make sharp tentation; Sense is too niggardly for Bliss, And payes me dully with what is; But fancy’s liberall, and gives all That can within her vastnesse fall; Vaile therefore still, while I divine The Treasure of this hidden Mine, And make Imagination tell What wonders doth in Beauty dwell. _Upon Mr. ~Fullers~ Booke, called ~Pisgah-sight~._