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.