Come my brave gallant come, uncase, uncase, Nere shall oblivion your great actes deface. He has been there where never man came yet, An unknowne countrie, I, ile warrant it, Whence he could Ballace a good ship in holde, With Rubies, Saphiers, Diamonds and golde, Great Orient Pearles esteem’d no more then moates, Sould by the pecke as chandlers mesure oates, I mervaile then we have no trade from thence: O tis too farre it will not beare expence. T’were far indeede, a good way from our mayne, If charges eate up such excessive gaine, Well he can shew you some of Lybian gravell, O that there were another world to travell, I heard him sweare that hee (twas in his mirth) Had been in all the corners of the earth. Let all his wonders be together stitcht, He threw the barre that great _Alcides_ pitcht: But he that saw the Oceans farthest strands, You pose him if you aske where Dover stands. He has been under ground and hell did see, _Aeneas_ nere durst goe so farre as hee. For he has gone through _Plutœs_ Regiment, Saw how the Fiendes doe Lyers there torment. And how they did in helles damnation frye, But who would thinke the Traveller would lye? To dine with _Pluto_ he was made to tarrie, As kindly us’d as at his Ordinarie. Hogsheades of wine drawne out into a Tub, Where he did drinke hand-smooth with _Belzebub_, And _Proserpine_ gave him a goulden bow, Tis in his chest he cannot shew it now. _Of one that cousned the Cut-purse._ One toulde a Drover that beleev’d it not, What booties at the playes the Cut-purse got, But if t’were so my Drovers wit was quicke, He vow’d to serve the Cut-purse a new tricke. Next day unto the play, pollicy hy’d, A bag of fortie shillings by his side, Which houlding fast he taketh up his stand, If stringes be cut his purse is in his hand. A fine conceited Cut-purse spying this, Lookt for no more, the for shillings his, Whilst my fine Politique gazed about, The Cut-purse feately tooke the bottom out. And cuts the strings, good foole goe make a jest, This Dismall day thy purse was fairely blest. Houlde fast good Noddy tis good to dreade the worse, Your monie’s gone, I pray you keepe your purse. The play is done and foorth the foole doth goe, Being glad that he cousned the Cut-purse soe. He thought to jybe how he the Cut-purse drest, And memorize it for a famous jest. But putting in his hand it ran quite throw Dash’t the conceite, heele never speake on’t now, You that to playes have such delight to goe, The Cut-purse cares not, still deceive him so. _A drunken fray._