My Surpless, with one sleeve, you shall find there,
     For to that dearth of Linnen you have driven me;
     And the old Cutwork Cope, that hangs by Geometry: 
     ’Pray ye turn ’em carefully, they are very tender;
     The remnant of the Books, lie where they did, Neighbours,
     Half puft away with the Church-wardens pipings,
     Such smoaky zeals they have against hard places. 
     The Poor-mans Box is there too:  if ye find any thing
     Beside the Posie, and that half rub’d out too,
     For fear it should awake too much charity,
     Give it to pious uses, that is, spend it.

     Die.

     The Bell-ropes, they are strong enough to hang ye,
     So we bequeath ye to your destiny.

     1.

     ’Pray ye be not so hasty.

     Die.

     I’le speak a proud word to ye,
     Would ye have us stay?

     2..

     We do most heartily pray ye.

     3..

     I’le draw as mighty drink, Sir.

     Lop.

     A strong motive,
     The stronger still, the more ye come unto me.
     3..  And I’le send for my Daughter.

     Lop.

     This may stir too: 
     The Maiden is of age, and must be edified.

     4..

     You shall have any thing:  lose our learned Vicar? 
     And our most constant friend; honest dear Diego?

     Die.

     Yet all this will not do:  I’le tell ye, Neighbours,
     And tell ye true, if ye will have us stay,
     If you will have the comforts of our companies,
     You shall be bound to do us right in these points,
     You shall be bound, and this the obligation,
     Dye when ’tis fit, that we may have fit duties,
     And do not seek to draw out our undoings,
     Marry try’d Women, that are free, and fruitful,
     Get Children in abundance, for your Christnings,
     Or suffer to be got, ’tis equal justice.

     Lop.

     Let Weddings, Christnings, Churchings, Funerals,
     And merry Gossippings go round, go round still,
     Round as a Pig, that we may find the profit.

     Die.

     And let your old men fall sick handsomely,
     And dye immediately, their Sons may shoot up: 
     Let Women dye o’th’ Sullens too, ’tis natural,
     But be sure their Daughters be of age first,
     That they may stock us still:  your queazie young Wives
     That perish undeliver’d, I am vext with,
     And vext abundantly, it much concerns me,
     There’s a Child’s Burial lost, look that be mended.

     Lop.

     Let ’em be brought to Bed, then dye when they please. 
     These things considered, Country-men, and sworn to.