A Dialogue betweene Master Guesright and poore neighbour Needy.
OR
A few proofes both reall and true,
Shewing what men for mony will doe.
To a pleasant new tune, called, But I know what I know.
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WEll met neighbour Needy, what walking alone,
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How comes it I pray that you thus sigh and groane,
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The cause by your physiognomie straight I can tell,
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And know by the same that all is not well.
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In truth master Guesright you speake very true,
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For money I want and beleeve so do you.
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And therefore eene say, and do what you please,
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I know you are sicke of my sore disease.
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For me neighbour Needy, the world is so hard.
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That solely my selfe I now cannot guard
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Besides young and old loves coyne so intire,
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That have it they will though out of the fire.
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Nay, good neighbour Needy, I pray say not so,
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For then you will wrong a many I know,
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Besides I no way perswaded can be,
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That money is loved in the highest degree.
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Money if you thinke so I instant will prove,
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That few or none but money do love,
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And when I have done I know you will say,
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Tis all reall truth, then harken I pray.
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Inprimis your Tailor, is loving and kind,
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Nor doe I with him any fault find,
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But rest you assured and take it from mee,
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That most he doth, he doth for his fee.
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Your Mercer in courtesie seldome forbeares,
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To show you the prime and best of his wares,
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But if that a reason youd have me to show,
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Tis cause he would get by the bargaine I know.
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Your Barber most nimbly will trimme your fine Patt[o],
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And if that you please turne up your mouchatto,
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But marke you what followes my kind loving neighbour,
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He lookes to be gratified well for his labour.
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Your Vintner will spread you his linnen most fine,
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And bring you both Suger, Tobaco and Wine,
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And having so done requires but this
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To pay him his shot, which you must not misse.
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Againe this is true, as I now doe tell yee,
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A Cooke in Pye-Corner will fill up your belly,
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And when you are satisfied, he like an Asse,
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Desires no money but eene for his sawce.
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The second part, to the same tune.
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Your Tapster is growne a right honest man,
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For he will misreckon no more than he can,
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For by his Jug, his Pot, and his Pipe,
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He has danct himselfe an Officer ripe.
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Your out-landish Doctour most ready will be,
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To cure you of your infirmity,
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Which being effected, he for his skill,
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Desires no more but a golden Pill.
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Nay, what makes your Land-lord let housen by lease,
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That you may live in em daily peace,
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But that he imagines and has an intent,
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You will not faile for to pay him his rent.
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What makes your In-keeper to harbour the poore,
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And unto all comers set open his dore,
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But that he intends if possible can,
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To have his reward of every man.
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What makes your Usurer ever your friend,
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And be so officious his money to lend,
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But that he intends to bring you in thrall,
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And get if he can, the Devill and all.
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Nay, what makes your Hang-man, I tell you but so
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Such a base office for to under-goe,
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But that he hopes, and ever presages,
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To have all their cloathes as well as his wages.
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What makes your Broker so often to cry,
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See what you lacke friend, what will you buy,
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But that he would as his neighbours all doe,
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Get if he could for one penny two.
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What makes your Carrier to traverse the land,
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Nay, what makes your Souldier fight while he can stand,
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But that they intend my owne deerest honey,
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To gaine this same paultry thing called money.
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What makes your tooth drawer to cut off your corne,
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What makes your Sow-gelder to wind up his horne,
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Nay, what makes the world to do as they doe,
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But that they would purchase this same mony too[?]
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Nay, neighbour theres more then all these are yet,
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Which I for brevities sake doe omit,
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But these I hope will very well prove,
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That men doe more for money then love.
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Well neighbour Guesright if this same be true,
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Then home we will straight without more adoe,
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And what we intend to none we will tell,
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But keepe to our selves and so fare-you well.
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