One toulde a Drover that beleev’d it not,
What booties at the playes the Cut-purse got,
But if t’were so my Drovers wit was quicke,
He vow’d to serve the Cut-purse a new tricke.
Next day unto the play, pollicy hy’d,
A bag of fortie shillings by his side,
Which houlding fast he taketh up his stand,
If stringes be cut his purse is in his hand.
A fine conceited Cut-purse spying this,
Lookt for no more, the for shillings his,
Whilst my fine Politique gazed about,
The Cut-purse feately tooke the bottom out.
And cuts the strings, good foole goe make a jest,
This Dismall day thy purse was fairely blest.
Houlde fast good Noddy tis good to dreade the worse,
Your monie’s gone, I pray you keepe your purse.
The play is done and foorth the foole doth goe,
Being glad that he cousned the Cut-purse soe.
He thought to jybe how he the Cut-purse drest,
And memorize it for a famous jest.
But putting in his hand it ran quite throw
Dash’t the conceite, heele never speake on’t now,
You that to playes have such delight to goe,
The Cut-purse cares not, still deceive him so.