To Cosmus

Wouldst know who 'tis that makes his knife his plough?
Reaps with encrease, and yet doth never sow?
That hath no Granarie to inn an eare,
And yet 'tis harvest with him all the year?
That without fear of Statute, doth ingrosse
All th'corn hee can, and lives by others losse?
Nor buyes nor sels, nor eats it? then know (Sir?)
'Tis Gemurcide, your humble Corn-cutter.