Epigram

Crosse not my humor, with an ill plac’d worde, For if thou doest, behold my fatall sworde: Do’st see my countenance begin looke red? Let that fore-tell ther’s furie in my hed. A little discontent will quickely heate it. Touch not my stake, thou wert as good to eate it, These damned dice how cursed they devoure: I lost some halfe score pound in halfe an houre. A bowle of wine, sirha: you villaine, fill: Who drawes it Rascall? call me hether Will. You Rogue, what ha’st to Supper for my dyet? Tel’st me of Butchers meate? knave I defie it. Ile have a banquet to envite an Earle, A Phœnix boyld in broth distil’d in Pearle. Holde drie this leafe, a candle quickly bring, Ile take one pipe to bed, none other thing. Thus with Tabacco he will sup to night: Flesh-meate is heavie, and his purse is light.