Upon Cob. Epig.

How could Luke Smeaton wear a shoe, or boot,
Who two-and-thirty corns had on a foot.

Ralph pares his nails, his warts, his corns, and Ralph
In sev'rall tills and boxes, keeps 'em safe;
Instead of hartshorn, if he speaks the troth,
To make a lusty-jelly for his broth.

Scobble for whoredom whips his wife; and cries
He'll slit her nose; but blubb'ring, she replies,
Good sir, make no more cuts i' th' outward skin,
One slit's enough to let adultry in.

Prickles is waspish, and puts forth his sting
For bread, drink, butter, cheese; for everything
That Prickles buys puts Prickles out of frame;
How well his nature's fitted to his name!

Come sit we by the fire's side,
And roundly drink we here;
Till that we see our cheeks ale-dy'd
And noses tann'd with beer.

For thirty years Tubbs has been proud and poor;
'Tis now his habit, which he can't give o'er.