These were afterwards, in R.
Saunders's custody, bought by him either of his son or of a
stationer.[2]
[Footnote 2: But first offered to be sold to me for twenty
shillings. When Mr. Saunders died I bought them of his son for
less. E. A----.]
There was then William Poole, a nibbler at astrology, sometimes a
gardener, an apparitor, a drawer of linen; as quoifs, handkerchiefs; a
plaisterer and a bricklayer; he would brag many times he had been of
seventeen professions; was very good company for drolling, as you
yourself very well remember (most honoured Sir);[3] he pretended to
poetry; and that posterity may have a taste of it, you shall have here
inserted two verses of his own making; the occasion of making them was
thus. One Sir Thomas Jay, a Justice of the Peace in Rosemary-Lane,
issued out his warrant for the apprehension of Poole, upon a pretended
suggestion, that he was in company with some lewd people in a tavern,
where a silver cup was lost, _Anglice_ stolen. Poole, hearing of the
warrant, packs up his little trunk of books, being all his library, and
runs to Westminster; but hearing some months after that the Justice was
dead and buried, he came and enquired where the grave was; and after the
discharge of his belly upon the grave, left these two verses upon it,
which he swore he made himself.
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