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.

Here lieth buried Sir Thomas Jay, Knight,
Who being dead, I upon his grave did shite.

[Footnote 3: December 17, this William Poole was married to
Alice How, at St. George's Church in Southwark. Mr. Lilly gave
her to him.]