ay to the City-wives,
Through their excessive brav'ry,
Their Husband hardly thrives,
But rather lives in Slav'ry.

Tell London Youths that Dice,
Faire Queanes, fine Clothes, full Bouls,
Consume the cursed price
Of their dead-Fathers Soules.

Say Maidens are too coy
To them that chastely seeke them,
And yet are apt to toy
With baser Jacks that like them.

Tell Poets of our dayes
They doe profane the Muses,
In soothing Sin with praise,
That all the world abuses.

Tell Tradesmen waight and measure
They craftily abuse,
Thereby to heap-up treasure,
Though Heav'n thereby they lose.

Goe tell the vitious rich,
By usury to gaine
Their fingers alwaies itch,
To soules and bodies paine.

Yea tell the wretched poore
That they the wealthy hate,
And grudge to see at doore
Another in their state.

Tell all the world throughout
That all's but vanity,
Her pleasures doe but flout
With sly security.

Tell Kings and Beggars base,
Yea tell both young and old,
They all are in one case,
And must all to the mould.

And now kinde Host adieu,
Rest thou in earthly Tombe,
Till Christ shall all renew,
And then I'll thee resume.

THE BOWERY AT NIGHT.

Coming up from one of the Brooklyn ferries, after dark, on a sultry
summer evening, I take my way through the close-built district of New
York City still known as "The Swamp." The narrow streets of the place
are deserted by this time, but they have been lively enough during the
day with the busy leather-dealers and their teams; for this is the great
hide and leather mart of the city, as any one might guess even now in
the gloom by the pungent odors that arise on every side. The heavy iron
doors and window-shutters of the buildings have been locked and barred
for the night; and the thick atmosphere of the place appears to affect
the gas-lights, which burn sickly and dim in the street lanterns. Nobody
lives here at night. The footfalls of the solitary policeman give out a
hollow sound as he paces the narrow _trottoir_ of Ferry Street, in the
heart of "The Swamp." Over two hundred years ago, when Governor Peter
Stuyvesant pastured his flocks and herds hereabouts, the wayfarer would
have been more likely to mark a solitary heron than a solitary
policeman; for it was really a swamp then, and much earth-work must have