soners at two Pence a full Pot for Beer, and two Pence a Quart for Ale, though none of the strongest.

His certain weekly Darught I know not, but did you but see the Cellar, how it is daily throng'd with Prisoners and their Friends, you would guess it to be about twenty Barrels in a Week.

Now, suppose it so, and that he pays the Brewer twelve Shillings a Barrel for both, which is as much as it is worth; then this Kind of Trade brings in the Keeper about four Pound a Week, for which he wets not his Finger. This, if constant, comes to two hundred and eight Pounds per Year. Now, notwithstanding all this, yet such is the covetous Cruelty of the Keeper and his Turnkeys, that if any Drink be sent to a Prisoner by a Friend, they will take it away at the Door, and give it to such as least want it, and sometimes break the Vessels, though, perhaps, the Person it was sent to, is ready to perish for want of a Draught of it. I hope he hath no Order of the Lord Maior and Court of Aldermen for these Kind of Practices. Authority, I am sure, does think that the Profit thereof belongs to the Prison, but I find that it is transmitted into Black Fryars. This added to his other Incomes by Lodgings, doth amount to betwixt 5 or 600l. per Annum, besides his Fees at the Door, which I hope is more than the Conscience of a good Magistrate will suffer to be the Annuity of one Goaler only. I need not trouble myself to conclude with a Prayer to the Magistrate, for regulating these Things, because the Beginning supplies that in special to the Persons empowered wth Authority, as well as good Consciences (I hope) to do it. And truly, after my tedious writing of this Tragi-Comedy, I think it fit to repose myself and Reader with a Song fitted to the Purpose, composed by a merry Drollist, that was lately a Prisoner there.

THE Ninth of February, Fifty and eight,     
For to be arrested it was my hard Lot;
I call'd for a Duce to better my Fate,     
Which forc'd me to Ludgate on a Serjeant's Trot.

Where I espy'd a muckle tall Man,     
Russling of Papers in a little Room;
He look'd like a Turnkey, and ask'd me my Name,     
But he read unto me my fourteen Pence Doom.

Out of his Pocket he pull'd a great Key,     
As bright as a Pistol, it frighted me sore:
Into a great Room he shew'd me the Way,     
And for nine Months I could scarce find the Door.

I walk'd up and down with a sorrowful Heart,     
At the Sight of the Shackles, the Bolts, and the Stocks;

The Prisoners shew'd me the Cellar so dark,     
Which drowned me faster than Doors and their Locks:

Where a Crab-footed Tapster star'd me in the Face,     
He told me a Running Assistant there stood:
He ask'd me four Groats for Candles and Bread;     
I told him I never was us'd to such Food.

An aged Man with a Broom I espy'd,     
I thought he'd been going to sweep the Streets,
He told me he would me a Lodging provide,     
But first I must pay eighteen Pence for my Sheets.

Then I to a Court of Justice was call'd,     
Thinking some Law or Religion to hear,
Because two Books before him lay spread:     
But, alas! they were Orders for Pris'ners to fear.

A Garnish then was buzz'd in my Ear;     
With that methought my Money grew scant:
I afterwards found what I then did not fear;     
But a Cloak to my Back I i'th' Morning did want.

To this I subjoin another very memorable Tract, concerning the four Hospitals of London, when first established with good and pious Orders, for the better Government of them. Which are still in Force, and printed occasionally, for the more common Information of Governours, and other Officers concerned.