Democritus, or Doctor Merry-man his Medicines against Melancholy humors. Written by S. R. [i.e. by Samuel Rowlands] |
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[A sort of Clownes for losse which they sustayn'd] |
 | Democritus, or Doctor Merry-man his Medicines |  |
[A sort of Clownes for losse which they sustayn'd]
A sort of Clownes for losse which they sustayn'dBy Souldiours, to the Captaine sore complayn'd,
With dolefull words, and very wofull faces,
They mou'd him to compassionate their cases.
Good Sir, (sayes one) I pray redresse our wronge,
They that haue done it, vnto you belong,
Of all that ere we had we are bereft,
Except our very shirts, nothing is left.
The Captaine answer'd thus, fellowes heare me:
My Souldiers rob'd you not, I plainely see.
At your first speach you made me somewhat sad,
But your last words resolue the doubt I had;
For they which rifled you, left shirts you say,
And I am sure mine carry all away:
By this I know, an error you are in,
My Souldiers would haue left you but your skin.
| Democritus, or Doctor Merry-man his Medicines | |