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40

[A Coniurer was circling in the aire]

A Coniurer was circling in the aire,
With nimble eies attentiue on the ground,


Where walking spirits, nousled many a paire,
Making a search the harmelesse to confound,
They wrought to reaue poore wretches of their breath,
Which neuer in life did ought deseruing death.
I saide to an abettor looking on,
Those innocents were woorthie of some pittie,
He answere made, and sware by sweete S. Iohn,
In pitying them, I shewed my selfe not wittie:
What skils (saide he) the shedding of their blood,
They doe me harme: but doe they any good?

A lanner or falcon, lying in for her game, whilest the dogs hunted to spring it.