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Pan. A goodly medicine for my aking bones, Oh world, world thus is the poore agent defpis'd, Oh traitors and bawds, how earneftly are you fet a worke, and how ill requited, why fhould our endeuour bee fo lou'd and the performance fo loathed, what verfe for it? What inftance for it? Let me fee,
Full merrily the humble bee doth fing,
And being once fubdude in armed taile,
Good traiders in the flesh, fet this in your painted cloaths,
Your eyes halfe out weepe out at Pandars fall.
Some two monthes hence my will fhall here be made,
END OF VOL. III.