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EPIG. 32.

[What gallant's that whose oaths flie through mine eares?]

What gallant's that whose oaths flie through mine eares?
How like a lord of Plutoes court he sweares
How braue in such a baudie house he fought,
How rich his emptie purse is outside wrought,
How Duchman-like he swallows down his drinke
How sweete he takes Tabacco till he stinke:
How loftie sprited he disdaines a Boore,
How faythfull harted he is to a ([OMITTED])
How cocke-taile proude he doth his head aduance
How rare his spurres do ring the morris-daunce.
Now I protest, by Mistris Susans fanne,
He and his boy, will make a proper man.