To I. C. Rob'd by his Man ANDREW.

SIr, whom I now love more, than did the good
Saint Martin, that all-naked-Flesh-and-blood,
Whose Cloake (at Plimmouth spun) was Crab-Tree wood.

His owne was Tammie sure; which made it teare
So soone into a gift; and thou (I feare)
Wilt beg halfe mine, not to bestow, but weare.

For thy Saint-Andrew sought not out the way
To keepe thee warme, but make thee watch, and pray;
That is, for his returne; about, Doomes-day;

Worse left, than blushing Adam, who withdrew
The nakednesse he fear'd, more than he knew,
Not to a Mercers, but where Fig-leaves grew:

Which sew'd with strings of slender Weeds, cloath Men
Cheaper than Silks, that must be paid for, when▪
It pleases the chiefe Scribe, 'oth Chamberlen.

Though my sick Joints, cannot accompany
Thy Hue-on-cry; though Midnight parlies be
Silenc'd long since, 'tween Constables, and me;

Without their helpes, or Suburb-Justices,
(Upon whose justice now an impost lies,
For with the price of Beefe, their Warrants rise)

I'le finde this Andrew strait. See, where the pale
Wretch stands: Thy guiltlesse Robes (ne're hang'd for fale;)
He executes, on Sundry Brokers Nayle.

In stead of him (chas'd thence by his wise feare)
Does the Mothers joy, a bold Youth appeare;
Who swaggers up to Forty Markes a yeare!

Sometimes he troubles Law, at th'Inns of Court;
Now comes, to buy him Weeds of shining sort;
And faine would have thy Cloake, but'tis too short:

Too short (neat Sir) was all thy rifled store;
Which made those Brokers curse thy stature more,
Than thou, Fiend-Andrew, the sad day before.

But hark! who knocks? good troth my Muse is staid,
By an Apothecaries Bill unpaid;
Whose length, not strange-nam'd-Drugs, makes her afraid.