Page:Madagascar, with other poems - Davenant (1638).djvu/92

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Sometimes he troubles Law, at th'Inns of Court;Now comes, to buy him Weeds of shining sort;And faine would have thy Cloake, but'tis too short:
Too short (neat Sir) was all thy rifled store;Which made those Brokers curse thy stature more,Than thou, Fiend-Andrew, the sad day before.
But hark! who knocks? good troth my Muse is staid,By an Apothecaries Bill unpaid;Whose length, not strange-nam'd-Drugs, makes her afraid.

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