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Thence to Meridin appear I,
Where grown Foot-sore, and sore weary;
I repos'd, where I chuck'd Joan-a,
Felt her Pulse, would further gone-a:
There we drank, and no Guest crost us,
Till I took the Host for th'Hostess.
Thence to Coventry, where 'tis said-a
Coventry-Blue is only made-a;
This I know not, for sure am I,
In no Market bought I any:
Bacchus made me such a Scholar,
Black nor Blue, I knew no Colour.
Thence to Dunchurch, where Report is
Of Pimps, Punks, a great Resort is:
But to me none such appear'd,
Thief nor Bung-hole I ne'er fear'd:
Though Curmudgeons have Fears plenty,
Safe he sings whose Purse is empty.
At Daintry early might you find me,
But not the Wench I left behind me:
Near the School-house where I boused,
Her I sought, but she was spoused;
Which I having heard that Night-a,
"Farewell (quoth I) Proselyta.