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Enter Maurice Dancer.
With
a Noise and a Din,
Comes the Maurice Dancer in.
With a fine Linnen Shirt, but a Buckram skin.
Oh! he treads out such a Peale
From his paire of legs of Veale,
The Quarters are Idols to him.
Nor doe those Knaves inviron,
'Their Toes with so much Iron,
Twill ruine a Smith to shooe him.
I, and then he flings about,
His Sweat and his clout,
The Wiser thinke it two Ells:
While the Yeomen finde it meet,
That he jungle at his feet,
The Fore-horses right Eare Jewels.
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