A horse then was sadled with speed, and boots and Spurs she put on, And other materials most fit, because she would not be known; A horse-back she straight got astride, with a Hogs-Pudding in her hand, And meeting these Taylors in haste, she presently bid them to stand. _O this &c_ Deliver your Money (quoth she) or else your manhoods now try, Or by this same thing in my hand, every man of you shall dye; Then out her Black-Pudding she pull'd, which sore did the Taylors affright, They thought it had been a Pistol well charg'd, because 'twas late in the night. _O this &c._ They beg'd their lives she might save, we are but poor Taylors (quoth they) And truly no money we have, for we work but for four pence a day; You lye, like all Rogues (quoth she) and do not my patience provoke, For 5 pounds you have tane for your work, so presant that word did them choak. _O this &c._. That money deliver with speed, if that you think well on your lives, Or by this same thing you shall bleed, the which will go farther than knives; Then out of their pockets their money they took, with many a sorrowful tear, And gave it into her hand, here's all on't each Taylor did swear. _O this &c._-- And when she their money had got, she set Spurs and away she did run, The Devil go with you (quoth they) for i'me sure that we are undone; But when that this Cook-maid came home, strait unto her Master she told, And show'd him his money again, how passages went she did unfold. _O this &c._ [Illustration: The poor Taylor making his complaint to the Esquire] But here comes the cream of the jest, those Taylors which was such Men, After they'd stood pausing awhile, then back they returned again; They came with a pittiful tone, their hair stood like men bewitcht, To th' Gentleman they made their moan, for their mony their fingers it itcht. _O this &c._ The Gentleman laugh'd in conceit, how many was there said he, Sure you were all men sufficient to a beaten above two or three; Truly we saw but one man, the which took our Money away, But we feared he had partakers in store, or else he should never a carried the day. _O this &c._ He was well mounted upon a good steed, and a Pistol that put us to studying, You lye like all fools (quoth she) it was but a black Hogs-Pudding; Thus they the poor Taylors did jeer, and the Cook-maid laugh'd in conceit, That with nothing but a black Pudding, and that five Taylors did beat. _O this &c._.