Sira, come hether boy, take view of mee,
My Lady I am purpos’d to goe see:
What doth my feather flourish with a grace,
And this same dooble sette become my face,
How descent doth this doublets forme appeare
(I would I had my sute in houns-ditch heere)
Do not my spurs pronounce a silver sounde?
Do’s not my hose circumference profounde?
Sir these are well, but there is one thing ill,
Your Tailour with a sheete of paper bill,
Vowes heel’e be paid, and Serjeants he had feed,
Which wayte your comming forth to do thy deede:
Boy god-amercy let my Lady stay,
Ile see no counter for her sake to day.