Epistle to Master Arthur Squib

I am to dine, friend, where I must be weigh'd
For a just wager, and that wager paid
If I do lose it; and, without a tale,
A merchant's wife is regent of the scale.
Who when she heard the match, concluded straight,
An ill commodity! it must make good weight.
So that, upon the point, my corporal fear
Is, she will play dame justice too severe;
And hold me to it close; to stand upright
Within the balance, and not want a mite;
But rather with advantage to be found
Full twenty stone, of which I lack two pound;
That's six in silver: now within the socket
Stinketh my credit, if, into the pocket
It do not come: one piece I have in store,
Lend me, dear Arthur, for a week, five more,
And you shall make me good in weight and fashion,
And then to be return'd; or protestation
To go out after: till when take this letter
For your security. I can no better.