HOw now Suck-bottle, how goes the world with you? me-thinkes you are growne very wist of late, thy cheekes looke as thin as a Shrove-tuesd pan-cake; surely thou hast ost the priviledge of the Ale-tap, or will mother Nip at the bunch of Grapes score no longer? Tell me the cause of thy deje­cted countenance.

A pox on you Lightfoot, if it had not beene for you I might have beene now merry and frolicke, with my pipe and my pot; but now alas the case is altered: the Fidlers go a begging.

Sirrah Suck-bottle, doe not you lay the cause of your downfull upon me, for if it had not beene for your tearing throat, my basket with papers would have filld my [Page 2] purse with crownes; whereas now I could scarce get money e [...]ugh to buy sshooes to tr [...]t from the Exchange to West­minster, and from Westminster to the Old Bayly, from the Old Bayly to Pauls Church-yard, and from thence to Westminster againe: it is well known to the whole world, that what we got wee tooke paines for, like true Adamites we got our living by the sweat of our browes.

You were true Adamites indeed; for some of you had scarce cloathes enow to cover your nakednesse; it was better sport than to see a Beare-bayting, to heare a male and female Mercury scolding together. I oncc going in Smithfield, one calld rogue, the other whore; one com­ming by wisht the Divell to take them both: the woman with her tippet standing up, her tongue being almost wea­ry with Billingsgate worke, going out of doores, chanced to slip, and in stead of a womans smock, shewed a mans shirt on her backe. And this is the gentility of your wor­shipfull Mercuries, both male and female: and then to make up the matter, you solely endeavored to pull down the admirable Corporation, or rather Bacchanalian Society of most reverend wandring Stationers.

You may well call your selves wandring Statio­ners, for there was scarce one of you that could say, at such a house I will lodge to night: one of you came out of a hedge, mother out of New-gate, a third out of the New-prison, and the fourth not beeing above a moneth out of Bedlam, roundly, profoundly, and soundly cries out with a voyce made of cannon proofe, Come buy a new Booke, a new Booke, newly come forth; these are the most admirable proprieties which belong to your most admired Corporation.

Light foot, cease thy rayling, Light foot look where How now Mars comes, the Regent Master of all Ballad-singers, he who thinkes his Muse came from He­licon, when as it is well knowne the first originall of it was taken out of a Tan-pit, I say, let this worthy Patron of Strangullion Poetry moderate the cause, betwixt us two, for why, we are both at variance.

What is the matter most worthy Gentlemen? me thinkes yee should rather deplore one anothers late misfortunes, than to deride at each others misery, I pri­vately heard all your discourse, which will be a laughter to the whole world.

You Master Light-foot call Master Suck-bottle Knave, and Master Suck bottle calls you Knave, and as for my part, I thinke yee are both Knaves, for why, neither of yee both deal honestly, I will shew you a reason for it, as for you Mercuries, instead of binding of Bibles you have chang'd your Trades to binde one another to that you never had, your good behaviours I mean, moreover there are amongst you double dealers, for why? you have been meer Male and Female, one upon another, now for you Gentlemen Hawkers, or rather wandering Book-sellers, whose mouthes are like open sepulchres, for why? they are alwayes gaping, as for your hands, they are open also to take money, when yee can get it, yee are beholding to traiters, for had they not been bad, you had never took so much good money. [Page 4] But who was the better for it? not your selves I am sure: for why, you have spent it all at the Ale-house; and now, be it spoken to each one of your comforts, the next time you cry books about London, your reward shall be the whipping post; for why, there must be nothing sold with­our License.

Master Poet, your tongue runnes before your wit, you tell us of our faults, but never looke upon your own. I saw the other day a Poet in print, shiting out of the Divels breech: you are very religious men, rather than you will lose halfe a crowne, you will write against your owne Fathers. You will make mens wills before they be sicke, and hang them before they are in prison, and cut off heads before you know why or wherefore. You have an indiffer­ent strong Corporation: 23 of you sufficient writers, be­sides Martin Parker. This alteration notwithstanding hath made all your breeches make buttons: two or three of you if they had not trusted unto their legges, it is ten to one if they had not take acquaintance with the Gate-house, and then have lent the Pillory an eare or two. I thinke Master Poet I am even with you.

Sawcy Mercury, the arrantest knave of forty, if it had not been for us Poets, your wives petticoats had not been so laced, nor you blacke cloaked: wee shall have you shortly cry a poxe on the Printer, and then go hang your selves, and save yong Gregory a labour. There is a zealous Brother neere Warwicke lane, will helpe you to make up the number finely.

Master Poet, let me desire you to cease, I have heard you thus long with patience, let us all three bee [Page 5] friends, and be brothers in adversity I am the oldest Haw­ker amongst two hundred threescore and seventeen honest men and true, come, how say you, are we friends?

Well spoken Sim Suck-bottle, I were not wor­thy the name of a Poet if I would not condescend to be friends, so the band of amity were made in an Ale-house or a Taverne.

Have you any money Poet?

Money? I wonder when you ever see Poets have money two dayes together, I sold a copy last night, and have spent the money, and now have another copy to sell, but a pox on't, no body will buy it because it is not licenceable, come, I know thou hast money Light foot.

By this light not I.

Nor you Suck-bottle?

Why I? I was drunke last night, and never a new booke being out to day, I am quite broke.

Why then here be three broken gentlemen of us.

Thy fall O Poet, makes poor Light foot mad.

Thy fall O Poet, makes Suck bottle sad.