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,
Till he hath loft his hony and his fting.

And being once fubdude in armed taile,
Sweet hony, and fweet notes together faile.

Good traiders in the flesh, fet this in your painted cloaths,
As many as be here of Pandars hall.

Your eyes halfe out weepe out at Pandars fall.
Or if you cannot weepe yet giue fome grones,
Though not for me yet for my aking bones:
Brethren and fifters of the hold-ore trade,

Some two monthes hence my will fhall here be made,
It should be now but that my feare is this,
Some gauled goofe of Winchester would hiffe
'Till then Ile fweat and feeke about for eases,
And at that time bequeath you my diseases.

END OF VOL. III.