Page:Handful of Pleasant Delights.djvu/20

Touch. This cannot be fained sure. Heauen pardon my seuerity. The ragged Colt, may prone a good Horse.

Gould. How he listens! and is transported? He has forgot mee.

Quic. Still Eastward hoe vvas all my vvord:
But VVestward I had no regard.
Nor neuer thought, vvhat vvould come after
As did alas his youngest Daughter,

At last the blacke Oxe trode o' my foote,
And I savv then vvhat longd vntoo't.
Now cry I, Touchstone, touch me stil,
And make me currant by thy skill.

Touch. And I will doe it, Francis.

Wolfe. Stay him M. Deputy, now is the time, we shall loose the song else.

Frien. I protest it is the best that euer I heard.

Quick. How like you it Gentlemen;

All. O admirable, sir!

Quic. This Stanze now following, alludes to the story of Mannington from whence I tooke my proiect for my inuention.

Fri[e]n[d]. Pray you goe on sir.

Quic. O Manington thy stories shovv,
Thou cutst a Horse-head off at a blovv
But I confesse, I haue not the force
For to cut off the head of a horse,
Yet I desire this grace to vvinne,

That I may cut off the Horse-head of Sin.
And leaue his body in the dust
Of sinnes high vvay and bogges of Lust,
VVherby I may take Vertues purse,
And liue with her for better, for worse.

Fri[e]n[d]. Admirable sir, and excellently conceited.

Quick. Alas, sir.

Touch. Sonne Golding and M. Wolfe, I thank you: the deceipt is welcome, especially from thee whose charitable soule in this hath shewne a high point of wisdom and honesty. Listen. I am rauished with his Repentance, and could stand here a whole prentiship to heare him.

Frien[d]. Forth good sir.

Quick. This is the last, and the Farewell.

Farewel Cheapside, farevvel svveet trade
Of Goldsmithes all, that neuer shall fade
Farevvell deare fellow Prentises all
And be you warned by my fall:
Shun Vsurers, Bauds, and dice, and drabs.

Auoide them as you vvould French scabs
Seeke not to goe beyond your Tether,
But cut your Thongs vnto your Lether
So shall you thriue by little and little,
Scape Tiborne, Counters, and the Spitle.

Touch. An scape them shalt thou my penitent, and dear Frances.