A Kinde of London-walker in a boote,
(Not George a Horse-backe, but a Gerge a foote,)
On ev’ry day you meete him through the yeare,
For’s bootes and spurs, a horse-man doth appeare.
Was met with, by an odde conceited stranger,
Who friendly told him that he walk’d in danger.
For Sir (in kindenes no way to offend you)
There is a warrant foorth to apprehend you.
Th’offence they say, you riding through thee streete,
Have kil’d a Childe, under your Horses feete.
Sir I protest (quoth he) they doe me wrong,
I have not back’d a horse, God knows how long,
What slaves be these, they have me false bely’d?
Ile proove this twelve-month I did never ride.