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Of late when Boreas blustring blasts had blowne
Down mighty trees, & chimnies tops orethrown:
In th' interim of this fierce combustious weather,
A Tyler and a Surgion met together,
Whose congees past, and salutations don,
The Tylers further speach he thus begun:
This wind he saith blowes profit still to mee,
In liew whereof, two pots ile giue to thee,

The motions lik'd, and so they passe the street,
Till with a painted Lattis they doe meet,
The sounding well they like, so in they went,
And budge not till the Tylers pots were spent,
When comming forth with sage and sober gate,
Downe drops a Tyle vpon the Tylers pate,
Who seeing the bloud run downe his cheekes amaine,
Amaz'd he cryed that he was almost slaine.
The Surgion hauing h's box of plasters there:
Straight stancht the blood to put him out of feare,
And saith withall, twas more then he did know,
The selfe same wind to him should profit blow,
But seeing I was beholding to the aire:
In liquid substance you shall haue a share,
So in againe they goe, and twixt them twaine,
They dranke out part of what they hope to gaine.