DEATH in a New DRESS: OR Sportive Funeral ELEGIES.

Commemorating the renowned Lives and lamented Deaths of these Eminent Personages,

  • Robbin the Annyseed-water Seller.
  • Martin Parker the famous Poet.
  • Archee the late Kings Jester.
  • The Gentlewoman that so often tra­vail'd up Holborn-Hill upon her Bum, &c.

WITH
The Celebration of some (harmless but plesant Healths) hitherto not in fashion: And other Drollerical Crotchets, very delightful.

By S. F.

LONDON, Printed for ISAAC PRIDMORE at the Signe of the Falcon neer the New Exchange, 1656.

DEATH in a new DRESSE: OR Sportive Funeral ELEGIES: Commemorating the Renowned Lives, and Lamented Deaths of these Eminent Personages, • Robbin the Annyseed-water Seller. , • Martin Parker the famous Poet. , • Archee the late Kings Jester. , and • And the Gentlewoman that so often travail'd up Holborn-Hill upon her Bum, &c. 
With other pleasant Crotchets.

On the Death of Annyseed-water Robbin.
AN ELEGIE.

HAve I not waited long enough; five years,
And yet no Heliconian Quack appears
In print, to manifest his mighty skill?
This Theam would seat him on the Muses Hill
[Page] Higher then Phoebus self; Ye glorious
Samuel Smith­son. Hum­phrey Crowch. Law­rence Price.
three
Who grasp the Poles of Star-crown'd Poesie;
Has som Cask-piercing
Drawer Smal­beer.
Youth poison'd your wine
With wicked Laethe? Did you ever dine
On Turnep-tops, without or Salt, or Butter,
That amongst all your Canzonets, or clutter
You fail'd to mention this deceased Robbin,
It seems you ne'r-quaft Nectar in his Noggin,
As I have done; then may my Verse be mighty
Spirited by his potent Aqua-vitae:
Was not thy voyce (dear Robbin) very sweet?
Wert thou not wondred at in every Street?
Anyseed-water,
Water fine;
Water that passes
Ale or Wine.
Thy tongue took every man (for 'twas a charm)
But then that woodden Vessel on thy Arm
Was more magnetick, 'twas a Pest'lence Can
Could put the Staggers on the Puritan;
Yet Ananias Goggle-eyes would swear it,
By Yea and Nay, Brother I can't forbear it;
This is some Son of Belial, (and his Punk)
Who has in charge to make the godly drunk:
[Page] How many whim-crown'd Shees (the chaste, chaste Wives
Of witty Citizens) did owe their lives
To thy Spagirick Water, when the
Fits of the Mo­ther.
Qualm
Could not be laid by Spell, or Hopkins Psalm,
Drench her but with a Cup of Robbin's Nectar,
And next Morn send her to St. Anthlin's Lecture,
She shal do wel; How many aged Sybils
Tasting thy Stream, would have their Quirks and Quibbles,
Dancing devoutly, who some hours before
Sat like Stone Statues ore a Portal dore;
Nor wert thou fram'd (as I my self can tell)
Without the Adjunct of a miracle;
Probleme of Sexes; Natures Jumble; Adam
And Eve conglutinated; Sir, or Madam;
Harry, or Madge; a Knight and Lady Errant,
With Rem in Re, and double Badge for warrant;
A Philip and Mary; thou couldst do
The office of the Man and Woman too:
Rare Enigmatick Robbin, when grown great
With-child thy self, thou couldst perform the feat;
Which gives the world Inhabitants, so we
(We must confess) are doubly bound to thee:
But this (though great) is not the chiefest matter,
Where, now, shal we attain such heavenly water;
(Such Chymical Nepenthe) that has made
More haughty Beggers of the Ryming trade
[Page] Then Helicon it self; while thou didst give
Thy Vessel vent, John Lookes himself did live,
And learned Taylor play'd upon his Lyre,
(With happy Ale and Wildings) by the fire:
Weep then (with me) all you that had the hap
To taste of that which flow'd from Robbin's Tap:
O partial Fate! that which did others save,
Could not protect our Robbin from the Grave.

HEALTHS.

HEre's a Health to that Serving-man ne'r had's head-bare,
And a Health to that Poet, whose cloak was ne'r thredbare.
Here's a Health to that Punk, never took Money,
Though proffer'd it for the use of her —
Here's a Health to that Cook, that ne'r likt his fingers,
To the late Cost-wold-Games, and the Clerkenwel Ringers.
Here's a Health to that Player that never was proud,
And to a Billinsgate Scold that never talk'd loud.
Here's a Health to that Letcher that never was lustfull,
And to that Grandee of State that never was distrustfull.
Here's a Health to that Host that loves to be Scoring,
And to that Royster that never lov'd Roring.
Here's a Health to that Captain that never drew Sword,
And a Catch-pole that's honest in's deed and his word.

On the Death of the most Renowned Poet, Mr. Martin Parker.
An ELEGIE.

HOw has it happen'd (speak ye tardy Nine)
That glorious Parker (he whose every line
Deserves a Panegyre) has all this while
Slept like a Slave, beneath his Funeral Pile,
And no new Johnson, Dun, or learned Gill,
To Dub the distillations of his Quill,
To Canonize his Canzonets, which are
Yet extant on each Market-day, or Fair.
Spirit of Orpheus; Archimedes skill
Would fail (should he bring in his tedious Bill)
To number all thy curious Canticles,
Thy Octaves, Epiceds, and Madrigals,
Which (as was us'd of old) did kindly greet
The peoples ears, as they did pass the street;
Sung to the pleasant Treble and the Base,
The Small or Great, the Sharp or Flat, to grace
Thy sublime Sonnets; was not every Song
Of thine applauded by the thirsty throng,
So (as to Thracian Orpheus) Trees did nod
When thou wert worried by the Delphick god;
[Page] And Stones did move; nay, gave a vocal sound,
Till with loud laughter every verse was crown'd.
Here thou wert Pindar, Alceus, Moschus, Bion
Apollos lov'd one, and the Muses Lion:
But these were but thy sports; some minutes spent
In Mimmick state, to palliate meriment:
Let us behold thee in thy German Story,
There thou art Lucan, while thy Muse (all glory)
Does sing the Austrian Ruines in a tone
More strong then Stentors, with O hone! O hone!
Say'st thou so Silius; here are other things,
The Deeds of Pacolet, and Pagan Kings:
Oh! in what stately Verse thou didst discourse on
The Doughty deeds of Valentine and Orson;
Dull Prose before, and fit for Boyes and Girles,
Thine for the solace of great Lords and Earls.
Speak ye nine Sisters, for ye only know
Whence did this sprightly sparkling Torrent flow;
How has our Parker above all inspir'd
His Lines so much cry'd up, so much desir'd?
I have't; He alwayes bath'd his Beak in Ale,
Toping whole Tubs off, like some thirsty Whale;
Phoebus and Hermes gave their joint consent
Their Priest should keep a Tippling Tenement:
Martin might well do more then Goffe or Graunger,
VVho (like a Horse) fed at the Muses Manger.
[Page] Hyperion's Host is sunk beneath his Barrels,
Ceas then your hom-bred Feuds, & stint your quar­rels
Ye that pretend to be his Heirs; in Sooth-la
Ye do dishonour the deceased Youth-la;
All that ye ought to minde are Sighes and Tears,
Death-beds and Funerals, and Scriveners ears;
VVeep, weep, until the floud-gates of your eyes
Do drown the world for Parker's Obsequies.

EXECRATIONS.

A Curse on that Coxcomb that never spends penny,
But he inwardly weeps for the loss of his mony;
So, a curse on that Courtesan never is merrie,
But when she is feasted with Pheasant and Sherrie:
And the same curse attend him refuses to pledge it,
When the Health deserves honor, and Truth does alledge it.
A curse on that Cockatrice, and her hot Rump,
That at one single vie gives a clap and a Thump.
A Pox of that Poet ne'r tipples Canary,
His Purse over full, and his Pate over wary:
With forty five curses on him that denies
A fair Ladies Option, when longing she lies.

On the Death of Archee the late Kings JESTER.
An ELEGIE.

GIve room ye Ghosts of Tarlton, Scoggin, Summers,
Minerva's Masquers, and the Muses Mummers;
Puppets for Potent Kings to play withall,
(Part Orthodox, and part Apochryphall;)
Great ARCHEE comes (with Hobby-Horse and Tabor)
To crack a merry Jest with Sir Iohn Swabber:
We that were made onely to eat up Corn,
And till we die, ne'r know why we were born,
Are our owne Zanies, we can sing Ho, Ho,
And slaver like to Fools in Follo;
Out-do Iack Adams in his frantick fits,
And seem most solid when we want our Wits.
But Kings are vext with real cares; each day
As it dilates the height of Soveraign sway,
So it Augments the horror; ARCHEES Coate
And Cap will tell ye he's a man of Note:
Great Charls (whose wisdome all the world admires)
Would warm himself by ARCHEE'S witty fire:
How then has thy great name slept all this while,
And no Virgilian Quill, in haughty style
[Page] Seating thy Fame on Stilts (with golden Pen)
And thou walkt ore the heads of other men?
Let not thy Manes mourn, that I dare venter
To stretch thy strong-nerv'd Fame upon the Tenter,
And tell the world how much thy Jests do merit,
Read but thy Book; they'l find thy glorious spirit
Did soar as far above the wit of Scoggin
As a Horse-hoof does differ from a Noggin:
That Medley of the men of Gotam (surely
For matter and for manner penn'd most purely)
Is but a spurious Sprig; but thine a Tree
Of Knowledge; we may pluck and taste of thee,
And never know our nakedness; thy crime
Most learned Laud, must brook the Jerk of Time
For bringing our dear ARCHEE in disgrace,
Who rent'st his Coat off, outing him his place
With dreadful Obloquie (for kicks are things
Are hardly brookt by Jesters and by Kings)
How like a Martyr didst thou bear these wrongs,
The frowns of Courtiers, and the forked tongues
Of Antler'd Citizens? If Patience bee
A sublime Virtue, there belongs to thee
A Triple-crown of glory, thou dost rest
For some few years, for (sure) thou dy'dst in Jest;
And we (no doubt) shall know thee once again
When ere we have a King to Rule and Reign.

HEALTHS.

HEre's a Health to 'that Tapster that never froath'd Can,
To that Virgin that marries, but not to know man:
To that Pimp and that Bawd that never took Fee,
To that Usuring Miser that loves to be free:
To that Priest that in Pulpit never told lie
(If a Presbyter Jack, or an American Spie:)
A Health to that Farmer that sighs when Corn's dear,
To that Pryn and that Bastwick that never lost Ear:
To that Houns-ditch Broaker that hates to be Knavish;
To him that haunts Whores, yet loaths to be lavish.

On the Gentlewoman that so often travail'd up Holborn-Hill upon her Bum.
AN ELEGIE.

THis is a Task indeed, and will require
A large Torch lighted with Phaebean fire,
To fing thy worth (rare Woman) who wert once-one
Fit for the Muse of Fletcher, Dun, or Johnson:
[Page] How then shall I sufficiently express
Thy fulgent figure in its native Dress,
VVho wert thy Sexes miracle? They Jump
On Cork-heel'd Stilts, but thou on Hand & Rump
Didst travail 'bout the Town, each leap of thine
VVould puzzle Spencer (though inspir'd w th wine)
Thy Hands were arm'd w th wood, thy Bum w th lea­ther
That might defie the dint of dirty weather;
A Vaulting Sybill; when thou wouldst dispense
VVith time, how heavenly was thy Eloquence?
VVhat moving Oratorie, that would pull
Pity from Thieves, make Misers mercifull?
A general gravity thou still didst fling
About thee, to our general wondering.
So (to the honour of the Common-wealth)
VVe ne'r were merry till we drank thy Health,
VVhich when gone round (with strictest celebra­tion,
Being Olympick in its operation)
Caus'd the Boon Delphick God himself appear,
Vowing to keep his Bacchanalias there:
Thou ne'r wert nam'd but with a general hum,
Mention the Lady, that upon her Bum
Jigg'd it up Holborn-Hill, each head was bare,
Though thatcht with Beaver, Periwigg'd with hair
New purchas'd; and as much Devotion seen
As they had memoriz'd some Eastern Queen:
[Page] Shall we then suffer such a Saint to fall,
And not erect some rich Aescuriall?
Though thou wert not embalm'd (like other Slurs)
But wert inter'd (in private) with thy Guts,
Didst want a Hearse (by sable Steeds drawn on)
A Herald, and a gilt Escocheon
Thou shalt not miss that Fame that has been com­mon
(Thank byass'd Fate) to many a worser woman:
And while the world lasts, thou shalt sit like Puss
In Majestie; thy name ador'd by us.

EXECRATIONS.

LEt the Fiend ceaze him that steals away
Just when he knows the Reckoning's to pay;
So him that makes it his pride and delight
To Fautorize Feuds, but dares not to fight:
The same curse on him ne'r speaks as he thinks,
That cherishes Coxcombs, and talks as he drinks:
So him that will censure before 'a does know it,
Or that may have a Fortune, and yet will forgo it.
A halter take him that hates to hear sense,
Or that numbers his friends, as 'a tels ore his pence.
[Page] Hell ceaze her (or else some place that is worse)
That loves a man merely for's Back and his Purse:
The like hap to him (who dreading no crimes)
VVill be any thing that shall pleasure the Times.
FINIS

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