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As do the Snakes in Dunghills, bre'd, and thrive,
And have their vents to keep their stinck alive,

Morall.



126

So do this brood of vermine, baske all day
To suck the spoyle; at night they part the prey.
Those rotten Vassals, cannot choose but see
They are the Drones which rob the painfull Bee.
To all that's begging-base they are agree'd,
They're fitter for the Hangman then for breed.
They swarme like Catterpillars: none can stand
Before their mouthes: they cover all the Land.
They are the sores of England, which do run
Almost past cure. Alas they have begun
To bring the body lowe! let lusty Knaves
Be whip't to work, and hamper'd up for slaves.
Let Bridewells joyne to guard these begging whores
Which breed like Mice, they are the greatest sores.
The weake might then be kept, the blind and Lame
'Pon Charity, our Kingdome quit from shame.
If they were dealt with, as they are displaid,
In halfe an age those Rats might be destroy'd