The Tragedy of
At last, when as our quire wants breath,
our bodies being blest,
We'll sing like Swans, to welcome death,
and die in love and rest.
1.Mad-man.
Doomes-day not come yet! I'll draw it neerer by a perspective, or make a glasse, that shall set all the world on fire upon an instant: I cannot sleepe, my pillow is stuff't with a littour of Porcupines.
2.Mad.
Hell is a meere glasse-house, where the divells are continually blowing up womens soules, on hollow yrons, and the fire never goes out.
3.Mad.
I will lie with every woman in my parish the tenth night: I will tithe them over, like hay-cockes.
4.Mad.
Shall my Pothecary out-go me, because I am a
Cuck-old? I have found out his roguery: he makes allom
Of his wives urin, and sells it to Puritaines, that have sore
Throates with over-strayning.
1.Mad.
I have skill in Harroldry.
2.
Hast?
1.
You do give for your creast a wood-cockes head, with the
Braines pickt out on't; you are a very ancient Gentleman.
3.
Greeke is turn'd Turke, we are onely to be sav'd by the
Helvetian translation.
1.
Come on Sir, I will lay the law to you.
2.
Oh, rather lay a corazive, the law will eate to the bone.
3.
He that drinkes but to satisfie nature is damn'd.
4.
If I had my glasse here, I would shew a sight should make
All the women here, call me mad Doctor.
1.
What's he, a rope-maker?
2.
No, no, no, a snufling knave, that while he shewes the
Tombes, will have his hand in a wenches placket.
3.
Woe, to the Caroach, that brought home my wife from
The Masque, at three a clocke in the morning, it had a large
Feather-bed in it.
4.
I have paired the divells nayles forty times, roasted them
In Ravens egges, and cur'd agues with them.
3. Get
