A Total Rout, Or a Brief discovery, Of a Pack of Knaves and Drabs, entitled Pimps, panders, Hectors, Trapans, Nappers, Mobs, and Spanners: the description of their qualities, is here set down in brief.  

YOU Princely Hectors of the Town,  
Who like the Devil strut up and down.  
Come leave your God dammees, and harken to me,  
O 'tis pity that fuel for Hell you should be:  
Your Spirits heroic, will quickly be quelled  
When once the General Sessions are held,  
For he's not a Gentleman, that wears a sword,  
And fears to swear Dammee at every word.   

No justice of Peace, nor constable's Bill  
Can move your brave courages for to be still.  
Superior Spirits, which know not to bow,  
Like Pompey no equal can pleasing allow;  
'Twere sin to be subject, Go courages brave,  
Subjection does only but Christen a slave.  
For he's not a Gentleman that wears a sword,  
And fears to swear Dammee at every word.   

But hark my poor Ranter, i'll tell thee a tale  
Thy cursings and bannings will buy thee no Ale:  
I'll bring thee a Broom stick, or an orange-tailed slut.  
(With eightpences in pock, ready dried and cut.)  
Shall out vapour thee more with a confident face.  
And sooner be trusted in a desperate case.  
Then prithee poor Hector go pawn' way thy sword  
And cease to swear Dammee at every word.   

For why? the Ale-brokers have vowed & protested,  
(And I think they will keep it, unless they be basted)  
To trust you no longer resolved they be,  
For building of Sconces both one, two, and three.  
Damn, damn ye, you'll pay 'em to day, or to morrow,  
But next day is come, yet they do still borrow:  
Fie, fie Sir, a Gentleman and wear a sword,  
Yet break your God-dammees at every word.   

The tailor comes oft with a pestilent Bill,  
And faith he may come as oft as he will,  
But be little the better, unless for his pains  
With Dammees, and Rammees you addle his brains:  
Poor Snip, does return as light as he came,  
Home goes, and complains to his Stomachy Dame,  
Who rants, and tears, not afraid to be heard,  
And straps him, and raps him with top of the yard.  
Then prithee my Ranter, that wearest a sword.  
Turn honest, and once be as good as thy word.   

The Turn-ball Whores cry they are undone,  
And must to Virginia pack one by one,  
And in truth they'll enrich that beggarly Nation.  
For never such Planters came to a Plantation.  
You stole' way their smocks, and petticoats all;  
Besides did not pay 'em for what you did call.  
Fie, fie, my base Ranter, this is but a poor,  
A shabbed come off to plunder a Whore.   

But this is not all I have to say,  
I heard a complaint the other day,  
Of a Gentleman walking, in Lincoln's inn fields,  
Whom basely you took and kicked up his heels,  
Dived into his pocket, and took ten and three pence.  
You would not have spared it if it had been but fipence  
Thus poverty makes you Gentlemen bold,  
Turn Levellers all for another man's gold.   

But tarry, you spared not his cloak as I take it.  
'twere sin I confess as you Hector's do make it,  
To suffer superfluous Coats on another,  
When he that hath two must give one to his brother  
But then to the Brokers this garment must march,  
And woe to the fellow if there come a search,  
Thus one, two and three are ruined together,  
Whilst you at the Tavern crak knaves of a feather.   

And if it fall out the Constable snaps ye,  
How many twice doubled God dammees out raps ye  
That the Constable and his train shall pay,  
For abusing such Gentlemen clear as the day,  
Who scorn to own ignoble designs,  
But have means and have manors to satisfy Fines.  
But hang't my poor Ranter thou canst not devise,  
To daub up the constable's mouth with thy lies.   

Away you are guarded ro Newgate and then,  
Y'are sure of a Lodging when honester men,  
Exposed to the weather contentedly want one,  
And you to your minds, I do believe han't one,  
But patience perforce, My Ranters you know,  
Is medicine for mad dogs, and very well so,  
And now my good Reader canst tell me what ail,  
My Ranter to be cooped up in a jail.   

Now off goes the silver lace from the Coat.  
The buttons so needless and the points to b●ot,  
Two shirts are too many and rather than fail,  
One must be changed for Tobacco and Ale.  
These Hats are but toys superfluous; come,  
Our heads may be cold not wet in this room,  
Then hang't call a Broker, and let him bring chink  
we'll sell him our hats, yea our heads for good drink   

But oh my poor Ranter, thus tottered and torn,  
And almost as naked as ere thou wert born:  
What meanest thou to live so damnably base,  
And die in a jail 'tis a desperate case,  
Damnation and Hell comes posting together,  
And without repentance thou shalt suffer either,  
Thy cursed God dammees, and damnable cheats,  
Ungodly endeavours, and horrible feats,  
Are all Cable ropes, to draw thee to Hell,  
But yet prithee Ranter repent, so Farewell.   
FINIS.   

London Printed for R. E. 1653.