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A thriftie Gallant.
Fogh cryes spruce Curio what a smell is here,As if some house of Office troubled were?
Is there some foysting Spaniell in the roome,
Or is it pesterd by some stable Groome.
There's some thing putrified, search round about.
O tarrie, tarrie, I haue smelt it, out:
It is my sute, the Sattin is impure,
Or else my Taylors hands were nastie sure.
I must expell this sent with some perfume,
Counsell me sirs, your iudgements may presume:
Why then sayes one, I thinke a Siuit best,
No saies another 'twill atract the pest:
Why then that pouder which your Sempsters sells,
Come you are fooles I will haue something else.
There is a kind of sweet your brokers vse,
Tis that alone ile take, the rest refuse:
For that effectuall is, and of such power,
Twill purge a stincking garment in an howre.
And many Gallants vse it for a shift:
Therefore to frugall be and winne repute,
To Lauender he doth commit his sute.
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