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.