My masters sit attend you,

If mirth you love to heare:

And 'twill tell you what they cry

In London all the yeare.

I'll please you if lean,

I will not be too long,

I pray you all attend a while

And lissen to my song

Old shoes foe new Broomes,

The broome man he doth sing:

For hats or caps or buskins,

Or any ould Pooch rings,

Ripe Chery ripe,

The coster-monger cries,

Pippins fine, or Peares,

Another after hies

That's the fat foole of the Curtin,

And the leane foole of the Bull:

Since Shanke did learne to sing his rimes,

He is counted but a gull.

The players of the Bank side,

The round Globe and the Swan

Will teach you idle tricks of love,

But the Bull wilt play the man.

The world is ful of thredbare poets,

That live upon their pen:

But they will write so eloquent,

They are such witty men.

And thus I do conclude,

Wishing both health and peace,

To those that are laid in their bed,

And cannot sleepe foe fleas.