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Page 85:-
Hand to Hand I straitways shored
To a Cellar richly stored:
Till suspected for a Pick-lock,
Th' Beadle led me to the Whip-stock.
Thence to Tuxworth, in the Clay there,
Where poor Travellers find such Way there:
Ways like Bird-lime seem to shew them,
Seats are Syrts to such as know them;
Th'Ivy hangs there, long has't hung there,
Wine it never vended strong there.
Thence to Retford, Fish I fed on,
And to th'Adage I had read on;
With Carouses I did trim me,
That my Fish might swim within me;
As they had done being living,
And i' th' River nimbly diving.
Thence to Scrubie, O my Maker!
With a Pastor and a Taker
Day I spent, I Night divided,
Thief did make me well provided:
My poor Scrip caus'd me to fear him,
All Night long I came not near him.
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