This Forke my Rest is, and my Bandaleers Canary Bottles, that can quell base feares, And make us quaffe downe danger, if this not doe, What is it then? can raise a spiritt into fearfull men. This Match are linkes to light down to my belly Wherein are darksome chinks as I may tell yee, Or Sassages, or Puddings, choose you which, An excellent Needle, Hungers wounds to stitch. These my Supporters, garter'd with black pots, Can steele the nose & purg the brain of plots; These tosts my shooestrings, steept in this strong fog, Is able of themselves to foxe a Dog. These Armes being vanisht, once againe appeare A true and faithful Souldier _As you were_; But if this wants, and that we have no biting In our best Armours we make sorry fighting. FINIS Printed at _London_ for _R. Wood_ and _A. Coe_ 1642. [Footnote 201: _i.e._ a stupid, semi-idiot, as-- "A Dull and Muddy Mettled rascal, peak, Like _John a dreams_, impregnant of my cause, And can say nothing."--_Hamlet_, Act ii. Scene 2. ] [Footnote 202: "A Jack a Lent" was a straw-stuffed image which was shot at, beaten, thrown at, and otherwise ill-treated during Lent. It was supposed to represent Judas Iscariot.] [93.] There was a Gentleman that dwelt in the West Countrey, and had staid here in London a Tearme longer than hee intended, by reason of a Booke that _George_ (_Peele_) had to translate out of Greeke into English: and when he wanted money, George had it of the Gentleman, but the more he supplyed him of Coine, the further off he was from his Booke, and could get no end of it, neither by faire meanes, entreatie, or double payment: for _George_ was of the Poeticall disposition, never to write so long as his money lasted; some quarter of the Booke being done, and lying in his hands at randome.