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Of Lying Robbin.
RObbin his Lies are not pernicious Lies,
But pleasant Fictions, hurtful unto none
But to himself; for no man counts him wise,
To tell for truth that which for false is known.
He swears that Gaunt is threescore miles about,
And that the Bridge at Paris on the Sein,
Is of such thickness, length, & bredth throughout,
That sixscore Arches can it scarce sustain.
He swears he saw so great a dead mans Skull
At Canterbury digg'd out of the ground,
That would contain of Wheat three Bushels full.
And that in Kent are twenty Yeomen found,
Of which the poorest ev'ry year dispends
Five thousand pounds. These & a thousand mo
So oft he hath recited to his Friends,
That now himself perswades himself 'tis so.
But why doth Robbin tell his Lies so rife,
Of Bridges, Towns, and things that have no life?
He is a Lawyer, and doth well espy
That of such Lies an Action will not lie.