Upon Shift.

Skrew lives by shifts; yet swears by no small oaths
For all his shifts he cannot shift his clothes.

My many cares and much distress
Has made me like a wilderness;
Or, discompos'd, I'm like a rude
And all confused multitude:
Out of my comely manners worn,
And, as in means, in mind all torn.

If wounds in clothes Cuts calls his rags, 'tis clear
His linings are the matter running there.

Slouch he packs up, and goes to several fairs,
And weekly markets for to sell his wares:
Meantime that he from place to place does roam,
His wife her own ware sells as fast at home.

Let me sleep this night away,
Till the dawning of the day;
Then at th' opening of mine eyes
I, and all the world, shall rise.

Trap of a player turn'd a priest now is:
Behold a sudden metamorphosis.
If tithe-pigs fail, then will he shift the scene,
And from a priest turn player once again.