A Welchman walking in y^e darke for feare [67.] Some wall might hitte his face a box o' th' eare, Strecht out his armes, y^t if such danger Came, His hands might from his face avert y^e same. At last betwixt his armes there came a post, Which hitte his nose, and stroke him downe almost; Pluter of nayles, quoth he, I did not know My nose was longer than my armes till now. The accompanying illustration is taken for its quaintness and as an example of caricature, the tract itself hardly repaying perusal. No-Body--_Why do'st thou father all thy Lies_ [69.] _On Me? heaping Indignities_ _On one that never injur'd thee?_ Some-Body--_My Words and Acts hurt_ No-Body: No-Body--Som-Body _hath belied me much_, No-Body _sure hath cause to grutch_. [Illustration: SomeBody | NoBody] [52.] A certain rich Farmer having lain long sick in Norfolk, at last sent for a Physitian from the next Market Towne: who when he came, he felt his pulses, and viewed his water, & then told them, That he could by no means, nor physick escape, the disease had so much power in his body, and so went his way. Within a while after, by God's good help (who is the only giver of all health) the man escaped and was well againe, and walking abroad, being still very weak and feeble, he met with his Physitian, who, being very sore afraid to see him, asks him, if he were not such a Farmer; Yes, truely (quoth he) I am: Art thou alive or dead? (quoth he) Dead (quoth he) I am; and because I have experience of many things, God hath sent me to take up all Physitians I can get: which made the Physitian quiver and quake, and looke as pale as ashes for feare. Nay feare not quoth the Farmer, though I named all the Physitians, yet I meant thee for none: for I am sure a verier dunce lives not this day, than thou art: and then I should be a foole to take thee for one, that art more fit to give dogges physicke than men, and so he left him: but the Physitian never left quaking till he was out of his Patients Sight. _To my Booke-seller._ Thou that mak'st gaine thy end, and wisely well, [70.] Call'st a booke good, or bad, as it doth sell, Use mine so, too; I give thee leave. But crave For the luck's sake, it this much favour have. To lye upon thy stall, till it be sought; Not offer'd, as it made sute to be bought; Nor have my title-leafe on posts, or walls, Or in cleft-sticks, advanced to make calls For termers,[F. 106] or some clarke-like serving-man, Who scarse can spell th' hard names; whose knight lesse can. If, without these vile arts, it will not sell, Send it to _Bucklers-bury_,[F. 107] there 'twill, well.