One of these Cuccold-making Queanes did graft her husbands head: who arm’d with anger, steele and horne would kill him stain’d his bed, And challeng’d him unto the field, Vowing to have his life, Where being met, sirha (quoth he,) I doe suspect my Wife Is scarce so honest as she should, You make of her some use: Indeed said he I love her well, Ile frame no false excuse. O! d’ye confesse? by heavens (quoth he) Had’st thou deni’de thy guilt, This blade had gone into thy guts, Even to the verie Hilt. _Epigram._ Occasion late was ministred for one to trie his friend, Ten pounds he did intreat him yᵗ of all love he would lēd His case was an accursed case, no comfort to be found, Unles he friendly drew his purse, & blest him with tē poūd He did protest he had it not, making a solemne vow, He wāted means & money both, to do him pleasure now. Thē sir (quoth he) you know I have a Gelding I love wel, Necessitie it hath no law, I must my Gelding sell, I have bin offered twelve for him, with ten ile be cōtent, Well I will trie a friend (said he,) it was his chest he ment. So fectch’d the money presently, tother sees Angels shine Now God amercy horse (quoth he) thy credit’s more then mine. _Epigram._ Dice diving deepe into a Ruffians purse, Leaving it nothing worth but strings and leather: He presently did fall to sweare and curse, That’s life and money he would loose together, Tooke of his hat, and swore, let me but see What Rogue dares say this same is blacke to me? Another lost, and he did money lacke, And thus his furie in a heate revives: Where is that Rogue denies his hat is blacke? Ile fight with him, had he ten thousand lives. Oh sir (quoth he) in troth you come too late, Choller is past, my anger’s out of date. _Epigram._ A Kinde of _London_-walker in a boote, (Not _George_ a Horse-backe, but a _Gerge_ a foote,) On ev’ry day you meete him through the yeare, For’s bootes and spurs, a horse-man doth appeare. Was met with, by an odde conceited stranger, Who friendly told him that he walk’d in danger. For Sir (in kindenes no way to offend you) There is a warrant foorth to apprehend you. Th’offence they say, you riding through thee streete, Have kil’d a Childe, under your Horses feete. Sir I protest (quoth he) they doe me wrong, I have not back’d a horse, God knows how long, What slaves be these, they have me false bely’d? Ile proove this twelve-month I did never ride. _Epigram._