WIT AND DROLLERY, JOVIAL POEMS. Never before Printed.
By Sir J. M. Ja: s. Sir W. D. J. D. And other admirable Wits.
Ʋt Nectar Ingenium.
LONDON, Printed for NATH: BROOK, at the Angel in Cornhil, 1656.
TO THE TRULY NOBLE Edward Pepes, Esq
Worthy Sir,
I Am not insensible how great my presumption is to bring one single sprig to your grove of Lawrell, the most curious Manuscripts, and choicest volums having already celebrated your Study: and which must lye upon me as a worser imputation, that I should present you with these lighter Aires, your thoughts being long since more gravely fixed. Onely this makes me hope your pardon, I having followed the Instructions of those that so loved and honoured you, as that they could not permit your severer retirements from the world, to excuse you from the right of a Mecaenas to these Poems. Sir, I am not ignorant how you shun [Page]these vulgar wayes of being made publick to the world, but it were a crime that Posterity should not finde upon so eminent a record as this, which may make you rendred to future Ages, a favourer of the Muses. And therefore for my patt, I have but discharged my duty, in placing you before the best Wits of the Times, the performance of which, I count my greatest happinesse next the title of
Sir,
Your most humble Servant, J. P.
Courteous Reader,
I Present thee with Wit and Drollery, truly calculated for the Meridian of mirth; the once exalted Scene is at this present level'd, other Poems have come forth in such throngs, that our English world is satiated with them, especially as they have been lately stuffed with reiterated Hyperboles, or else other more pittifull whining passions of Love, such as ingenuous persons, cannot have the patience continually to be afflicted with. Reader, to give thee a broad side of plaine dealing, this Wit I present thee with, is such as can onely be in fashion, invented purposely to keep off the violent assaults of Melancholly, assisted by the additionall Engines, and Weapons of Sack and good company: as for those graver sort of people, who are contented to [Page]reade old Bembo, with his Beard down to his Girdle, I wish them a good digestion of their studies; these Poems are not for their gusto, they are a Heaven higher; as joviall, as clear, and as lusty, as those that writ them; such verball harmony, being as pleasing to the fancies, as the most delightfull Ayres of Musick are to the eare. Not to be tedious, or to deceive the Reader with a belief of what is not, these Poems never before printed, are a collection from the best Wits, of what above 15. yeares since, were begun to be preserved, for mirth and friends; the feare of having some of them imperfectly set forth, hath, though unwillingly, made them common. What hath not been extent of Sir J. M. of Ja. S. of Sir W.D. of J. D. and other miraculous Muses of the Times, are here at thy Service, and as Webster at the end of his Play cal'd the White Devill, subscribes, that the action of Perkins crown'd the whole Play, so when thou viewest the Title, and readest the sign of Ben: Johnson's head, on the backside of the Exchange, and the Angel in Cornhil, where they are sold, inquire who could better furnish thee with [Page]such sparkling copies of Wit, than those that have been so long courted for them; there are two or three copies crept in among the rest, as the ordinary sort of people croud in at the audience of an Embassador, which may at thy discretion be permitted to stay, or be put out; though they are good, yet not to be indured, as they are old. I have no more to acquaint thee with, but that good Drollery is not so loose, or of so late an invention, but that the most serious Wits have thought themselves honoured to own them. Bidding thee farewell.
J. P.
The Preface to that most elaborate piece of Poetry entituled Penelope Ulysses.
NO I protest, not that I wish the gaines
To spoile the trade of mercenary braines.
I am indifferently bent, so, so,
Whether I ever tell my workes or no.
Nor was't my aime when I took pen in fingers,
To take imployment from the Ballad singers.
Nor none of these but on a gloomy day,
My genius stept to me, and thus gan say.
Listen to me, I give you information,
This History deserves a grave translation;
And if comparisons be free from slanders,
I say as well as
Hero and
Leanders.
This said, I took my chaire in colours wrought,
Which at an outcry with too stooles I brought.
The stools of
Dornix, which that you may know well,
Are certain stuffs, Upholsters use to sell.
Stuffs, said I? no, some Linsey-Wolsey-monger mixt them,
They were not stuff nor Cloth sure, but betwixt them.
The ward I bought them in, it was without
Hight
Faringdon, and there a greasie lout
Bid for them shillings six, but I bid seven,
A summe that is accounted odd, not even:
The Cryer thereat seemed to be willing,
Quoth he there's no man better then seven shilling.
He thought it was a reasonable price,
So struck upon the Table, once, twice, thrice.
My Pen in one hand, Pen-knife in the other,
My Ink was good, my Paper was none other.
So sat me down, being with sadnesse moved,
To sing this new Song, sung of old by
Ovid.
But would you think, as I was thus preparing
All in a readinesse, here and there staring
To find my implements, that the untoward Elfe,
My Muse should steal away, and hide her selfe?
Just so it was, faith, neither worse then better,
Away she run er'e I had writ a Letter.
I after her apace, and beat the Bushes,
Ranke Grasse, Firrs, Ferne, and the tall banks of rushes.
At last I found my Muse, and wot you what,
I put her up, for lo she was at squat.
Thou slut quoth I, hadst thou not run away,
I had made Verses all this live-long day.
But in good sooth, o're much I durst not chide her,
Lest she should run away again and hide her.
But when my heat was o're, I spake thus to her;
Why did'st thou play the wag? I'm very sure
I have commended thee above old
Chaucer;
And in a Tavern once I had a Sawcer
Of White-wine Vinegar, dasht in my face,
For saying thou deservedst a better grace:
Thou known that then I took a Sawsedge up,
Upon the knaves face it gave such a clap,
That he repented him that he had spoken
Against thy Fame, he struck by the same token.
I oft have sung thy Meteers, and sometimes,
I laugh to set on others at thy rimes.
When that my Muse considered had this geare,
She sigh'd so sore, it griev'd my heart to heare.
She said she had done ill, and was not blameless,
And
Polyhymnie (one that shall be namelesse,
Was present when she spoke it) and before her,
My Muses lamentation was the soarer.
And then to shew she was not quite unkinde,
She sounded out these strong lines of her minde.
Here endeth the Preface, and now beginneth the Book.
O All you cliptick spirits of the Sphears,
That have no sence to hear, or use of cares;
And you in number seven celestiall Signes,
That Poets have made use of in their Rhimes;
And by which men may guess what seasons good
To gueld their Bore-pigs, or to let horse blood,
List to my dolefull glee, oh list I say,
Unto the complaint of
Penellope:
She was a Lover, I and so was he,
As loving unto her, as she to he.
But marke how things were altered in a moment,
Ʋlisses was a Graecian borne. I so meant
To have informed you first; but since tis 'ore,
It is as well as I had don't before.
He being as I said a Greek, there rose
A quarrell 'twixt the
Trojans and their foes;
I meane the Graecians, whereof he was one,
But let that passe, he was old
Priam's sonne.
This gallant biding where full many a mother,
Was oft bereft of child sister and Brother.
His Lady longing earnestly for his presence
Writes him certain Letters whereof here was the sense.
* My pretty duck, my pigsnie, my
Ʋlysses,
Thy Wife
Penellope sends a thousand kisses
As to her hearts great joy a friendly greeting,
Wish in thy company, but not thy meeting.
With enemies, or fiery spirits in armour,
The which perchance may doe thee harme or
Make thee their Prisoner, & clap on their Bolts
And Locks upon thy legs, such as weare Colts.
But send me word, and ere that thou want ransome,
A man so brave, so comly and so hansome.
Ile sell my Smock both from my back and belly,
Ere thou want money, means or meat I tell thee.
† When that
Ʋlisses all in grief envelloped,
Had read the true-love complement of
Penelope.
Laid one hand on his heart, and said 'twas guilty,
Beating the other with his Dagger hilty.
And dolefully exprest one of the Verses,
The which our Author in his book rehearses,
'Tis true, quoth he, Loves troubles make me tamer.
Res est soliciti plena timor is amor.
When as before
Ʋlysses just there stood,
A platter of pease pottage, wondrous good;
And against that the God of Love was place,
Made of a March-pane, carv'd out of Rye past.
To make that true, the which the proverb speaks,
The one the Heart, the other Belly breaks.
Penelope to glad her welcome guest,
Resolv'd to have some Fidlers at the feast.
Amongst the various consort chusing them,
* Who in their sleeves, the armes of
Agamemnon
in the next verse were, cry'd in a rage,
Sing me some song made in the Iron-age.
The Iron-age, quoth he, that us'd to sing,
This to my minde the Black-smiths song doth bring.
The Black smith quoth
Ʋlysses and there holloweth,
Whoop, is there a Song? lets ha't: it followeth.
SONG.
OF all the Trades that ever I see,
There's none to the Black-smith compared may be,
With so many severall tools works he.
Which no body can deny.
The first that ever Thunderbolts made,
Was a Cyclops of the Black-smiths trade,
As in a learned Author is said.
Which no body, &c.
When thundering-like we strike about,
The fire like Lightning flashes out,
Which suddenly with Water we dout.
Which no body, &c.
The fairest Goddesse in the Skies,
To marry with Vulcan did advise,
And he was a Black smith grave and wise.
Which no body, &c.
Vulcan he to doe her right,
Did build her a Town by day and by night,
And gave it a name which was
Hammersmith hight.
Which no body, &c.
Vulcan farther did acquaint her,
That a pretty estate he would appoint her,
And leave her Seacole-lane for a joynture:
Which no body, &c.
And that no enemy might wrong her,
He built her a fort you'd wish no stronger,
Which was the lane of Iron-monger,
Which no body, &c.
Smithfield he did cleanse from durt,
And sure there was great reason for't,
For there he meant she should keep her Court.
Which no body, &c.
But after in a good time and tide,
It was by the Black-smith rectified,
To the honour of
Edmund Iron-side.
Which no body, &c.
Vulcan after made a Traine,
Wherein the God of Warre was tane,
Which ever since hath been call'd
Paul's chaine.
Which no body, &c.
The common Proverb as it is read,
That a man must hit the naile on the head,
Without the Black-smith cannot be said.
Which no body, &c.
Another Proverb must not be forgot,
And falls unto the Black-smiths lot,
That a man strike while the Iron is hot.
Which no body, &c.
Another comes in most proper and fit,
The Black-smiths justice is seen in it,
When you give a man roast, and beat him with the spit.
Which no body, &c.
Another comes in our Black-smiths way,
When things are safe, as old wives say,
We have them under Lock and Key.
Which no body, &c.
Another that's in the Black-smiths books,
And onely to him for remedy looks,
Is when a Man's quite off of the hooks.
Which no body, &c.
Another Proverb to him doth belong,
And therefore lets do the Black-smith no wrong,
When a man's held hard too't buckle and thong.
Which no body, &c.
Another Proverb doth make me laugh,
Wherein the Black-smith may chalenge halfe,
When a reason's as plaine as a Pike staffe.
Which no body, &c.
Though your Lawyers travell both neer and far,
And by long pleading, a good cause may mar,
Yet your Black-smith takes more pains at th' Bar.
Which no body, &c.
Though your Scrivener seek to crush and to kill,
By his counterfeit deeds, and thereby doth ill,
Yet your Black-smith he may forge what he will.
Which no body, &c.
Though your Bankrupt Citizens lurk in their holes,
And laugh at their Creditors and their Catchpoles,
Yet your Black-smith can fetch them over the Coales.
Which no body, &c.
Though Jocky in the Stable be never so neat,
To look to his Nag, and prescribe him his meat,
Yet your Black-smith knows better how to give a heat.
Which no body, &c.
If any Tailor have the Itch,
The Black-smiths Water as black as pitch;
Will make his hands goe through stich.
Which no body, &c.
There's never a Slut if filth o're-smuch her,
But owes to the Black-smith for her leachor,
For without a paire of Tongues there's no man will touch her.
Which no body, &c.
Your roaring boyes who every one quailes,
Fights, domineers, swaggers and railes,
Could never yet make the Smith eat his nailes.
Which no body, &c.
If any Scholler be in a doubt,
And cannot well bring his matter about,
The Black-smith he can hammer it out.
Which no body, &c.
Now if to know him you would desire,
You must not scorne but ranke him higher,
For what he gets, is out of the fire.
Which no body, &c.
Now heres a good health to Black-smiths all,
And let it goe round, as round, as a ball,
Wee'l drink it all off, though it cost us a fall.
Which no body, &c.
Loyalty confin'd.
BEat on proud Billowes,
Bore as Blow,
Swell curled Waves, high as
Joves roof,
Your incivility doth shew,
That innocence is tempest proof.
Though surly
Nereus frown, my thoughts are calme,
Then strike affliction, for thy wounds are balm.
That which the world miscalls a Gaole,
A private Closet is to me,
Whilst a good Conscience is my Baile,
And Innocence my Liberty.
Locks Barres and solitude together met,
Make me no Prisoner but an Anchorit.
I whil'st I wish'd to be retir'd
Into this private room, was turn'd,
As if their wisdomes had conspir'd,
The Salamander should be burn'd.
Or like those sophies who would drown a Fish,
So I am condemn'd to suffer what I wish.
The Cynick hugs his poverty,
The Pelican her wildernesse,
And 'tis the
Indians pride to be
Naked on frozen
Caucasus.
Contentment cannot smart, Stoicks we see
Make torments easie to their Apathy.
These Mannacles upon my Arme,
I as my Mistris's favours weare;
And for to keep my Ankles warme,
I have some Iron Shackles there.
These walls are but my Garrison; this Cell
Which men call Goal, doth prove my Cittadel.
So he that strook at
Jasons' life,
Thinking he had his purpose sure;
By a malitious friendly-knife,
Did onely wound him to a cure.
Malice I see wants wit, for what is meant,
Mischief oft-times proves favour by th'event.
I'm in this Cabinet lockt up,
Like some high-prized
Margaret,
Or like some great Mogol or Pope,
Are cloyftered up from publick sight.
Retirement is a piece of Majesty,
And thus proud
Sultan, I'me as great as thee.
Here sin for want of food must starve,
Where tempting objects are not seen;
And these strong Walls doe onely serve,
To keep Vice out, and keep me in.
Malice of late's growen charitable sure,
I'm not Committed, but I'm kept secure.
When once my Prince affliction hath,
Prosperity doth Treason seeme;
And for to smooth so rough a Path,
I can learne Patience from him.
Now not to suffer shews no Loyall heart,
When Kings want ease, Subjects must learne to smart.
Have you not seeen the Nightingale,
A Pilgrim koopt into a Cage,
How doth she chant her wonted tale,
In that her narrow hermitage.
Even then her charming melody doth prove,
That all her boughs are trees, her Cage a grove.
My Soule is free as the Ambient aire,
Although my bafer part's immur'd,
Whilest Loyall thoughts doe still repaire,
To accompany my Solitude.
And though immur'd, yet I can chirp & sing,
Disgrace to Rebels is, glory to my King.
[...]
What though I cannot see my King,
Either in his Person or his Coyne,
Yet contemplation is a thing,
That renders what I have not mine.
My King from me, what Adamant can part,
Whom I doe weare engraven on my heart?
I am that Bird whom they combine,
Thus to deprive of Liberty;
But though they doe my Corps confine,
Yet maugre hate, my soul is free.
Although Rebellion doe my body binde,
My King can onely captivate my minde.
On Ben Johnsons Play called Magnetick Lady.
‘Parturiunt montes nascetur ridiculus Mus.’
IS this your Loadstone then that must attract
Applause and Laughter at each Scene & Act?
Is this the child of thy bed-ridden wit,
And none but the
Blackfriers foster it?
If to the
Fortune thou hadst sent thy Lady,
'Mongst Prentices and Applewives it may be,
Thy Rossy fool might have some sport begot,
With his strange habit, and Indefinite not:
But when as Plush and Silke, and all the wits,
Are called to see and censure as befits.
And if thy folly take not, then perchance
Must heare themselves styl'd gentle ignorance.
Foh; how it stinkes! what generall offence,
Gives thy prophanesse and grosse Impudence?
O how your friend
Nat Butter' gan to melt!
When as the poorenesse of the plot he smelt:
And
Inigo with laughter there grew fat,
That there was nothing worth the laughing at.
And yet thou crazy wretch art confident,
Belching out full-mouth'd oaths with foul intent.
Calling us Fools and Rogues, unletter'd men,
Poor narrow souls, that canot judge of
Ben.
Yet which is worse of three shamefull foyles,
The Printers must be put to farther toyles.
Whereas indeed to vindicate thy fame,
Thou hadst better giv'n thy Pamphlet to the flame.
Oh what a strange prodigious yeare 'twill be,
If this Play doe come forth in thirty three?
Let dooomsday rather come on New-years Eve.
And of your paper-plague the world bereave.
Which plague I feare worse then a Serjeants bit,
Worse then Infection, or an Ague fit.
Worse then Astronomers denying lips,
Worse then three Suns, a Comet or Ecclipse:
Or if thy learned Brother
Allestre,
Who's an
Homer unto thee in Poetry;
Should tell of raine upon St.
Swithins day,
And that should wash our harvest all away.
As for the Press, if this Play must joyne to it,
Let
Thomas Purfoot, or
John Trundle doe it
In such dull Characters, as for reliefes
Of Fires and Wrecks we finde in begging briefs.
And in Cap paper let it printed be,
Indeed Brown paper is too good for thee.
But let it be so Apocryphall,
As not to dare to venture on a stall;
Unlesse of Drugsters, Grocers, Chandlers, Cooks,
Victuallers, Tobacco-men and such like Rooks.
From
Bucklersbury let it not be bar'd,
But think not of
Duck-lane or
Pauls yard. Church.
But to advise thee
Ben in this strict age,
A Brick-kil's better for thee then a Stage.
Thou better knowst a groundsill for to lay,
Then lay the plot or ground work of a Play.
And better canst direct to Cap a Chimney,
Then to converse with
Clio or
Polyhimnye.
Fall then to worke in thy old age agen,
Take up thy Trug and Trowell gentle
Ben,
Let Playes alone: or if thou needs wilt write,
And thrust thy feeble Muse into the light,
Let
Lowen cease, and
Taylor scorne to touch
The loathed Stage, for thou hast made it such.
Ben: Johnson's Answer to Dr. Gill.
SHall the prosperity of a pardon still
Secure thy rayling Rhymes infamous
Gill
At libelling? shall no Star-Chamber Peers,
Pillory nor Whip, nor want of Eares.
All which thou hast deservedly:
Nor degradation from the Ministry.
To be the Dionesse of thy Fathers Schoole,
Keep in thy barking wit, thou bauling foole:
Thinking to stir me, thou hast lost thy end,
I'le laugh at thee poor wretched Tike, goe send
Thy blotant muse abroad, and teach it rather,
A tune to drown the Ballads of thy Father:
For thou hast nought to cure his fame,
But tune and noyse the Ecchoes of his shame.
A Rogue by statute, censured to be Whipt,
Cropt, branded, slit, neck-stockt, go you are stript.
Mr. Townsends Verses to Ben Johnsons, in answer to an Abusive Copie, crying down his Magnetick Lady.
IT cannot move thy friend (firm
Ben) that he
Whom the Star-Chamber censur'd, times at thee.
I gratulate the method of thy fate,
That joyn'd thee next in malice to the State.
So
Nero, after paracidall guilt,
Brooks no delay till
Lucan's blood be spilt.
Nor could his malice finde a second crime,
Unlesse he slew the Poet of the time.
But (thanks to
Hëllicon) here are no blowes,
This Drone no more of sting then honey shewes.
His Verses shall be counted. Censure when
Cast Malefactors are made Jury-men.
Mean while rejoyce, that so disgrac't a quill,
Tempted to wound that worth, time cannot kill:
And thou that darest to blast Fame fully blown,
Lye buried in the ruines of thy owne.
Vexe not thine ashes, open not the deep,
The Ghosts of thy slaine name had rather sleep.
On
Luce Morgan a Common-Whore.
EPIGRAM.
HEre lies black
Luce that Pick-hatch drab,
Who had a word for every stab,
Was leacherous as any Sparrow,
Her Quiver ope to every Arrow.
Wert long, or short, or black, or white,
She would be sure to noch it right.
Wer't Lords or Knights, or Priests, or Squires,
Of any sort except a Friers:
A Friers shast she lackt alone,
Because in
England here was none.
At last some Vestall fire she stole,
Which never went out in her hole.
And with that zealous fire being burn'd,
Unto the Romish faith she turn'd:
And therein dy'd, and was't not fit,
For a poor whore to dye in it.
An Epitaph on a Whore.
IN this cold Monument lyes one,
Which I know who hath lain upon.
The happyer he, whose sight might charm,
And touch might keep King
David warme.
Lovely as is the dawning East,
Was this Marbles frozen guest.
As glorious and as bright as day.
As oderiferous as
May.
As straight and slender as the Crest,
Or Antler of the one beam'd Beast,
Whom I admired as soon as knew.
And now her memory pursue,
With such a superstitious Lust,
That I could fumble with her dust.
She all perfections had, and more,
Tempting as if design'd an Whore:
For so she was, and some there are
Whores, I could wish them all as faire.
Courteous she was, and young, and wise,
And in her calling so precise;
That industry had made her prove,
The sucking School-mistresse of Love.
But Death, ambitious to become
Her Pupill, left his gastly home:
And seeing how we us'd her here,
The raw-bone Raskall ravish'd her.
Who pretty Soule resign'd her breath,
To practice Lechery with death.
A mock-song.
1.
OH Love, whose power and might
No Creature ere withstood,
Thou forcest me to write,
Come turne about
Robin Hood.
2.
Sole Mistresse of my heart,
Let me thus farre presume,
To make this bold request;
A black patch for the Rhume.
3.
Grant pitty or I die,
Love so my heart bewitches,
With grief I houle and cry;
Oh how my Elbow Itches!
4.
Teares overflow my eyes
With flouds of daily weeping,
That in the silent night,
I cannot rest for sleeping.
5.
What is't I would not doe
To purchase one sweet smile?
Bid me to
China goe,
Faith I'le sit still the while.
6.
Oh Women you will never.
But thinke men still will flatter;
I vow I love you ever,
But yet it is no matter.
7.
Cupid is blind they say,
But yet methinkes he seeth;
He struck my heart to day,
A Turd in
Cupids teeth.
8.
Her Tresses that are wrought,
Much like the golden snare,
My loving heart hath caught,
As
Mosse did catch his Mare.
9.
But since that all reliefe,
And comfort doe forsake me,
I'le kill my selfe with grief;
Nay then the Devill take me.
10.
And since her gratefull merits,
My loving look must lack,
I'le stop my vitall spirits
With Claret and with Sack.
12.
Marke well my wofull hap,
Jove rector of the Thunder,
Send down thy thunder clap,
And rend her smock in sunder.
The Answer.
1.
YOur Letter. I receiv'd
Bedect with flourishing quarters,
Because you are deceiv'd,
Goe hang you in your Garters.
2.
My beauty which is none,
Yet such as you protest,
Doth make you sigh and groan:
Fie, fie, you doe but jest.
3.
I cannot chuse but pitty
Your restlesse mournefull teares,
Because your plaints are witty,
You may goe shake your eares.
4.
To purchase your delight,
No labour you shall leese,
Your paines I will requite;
Maid, fetch him Bread and Cheese.
5.
'Tis you I faine would see,
'Tis you I daily thinke on;
My looks as kinde shall be,
As the Devills over
Lincoln.
6.
If ever I doe tame
Great
Jove of Lightnings flashes;
Il'e send my fiery flame,
And burne thee into ashes.
7.
I can by no meanes misse thee,
But needs must have thee one day,
I prethee come and kisse me,
Whereon I sat on Sunday.
In praise of his Mistrisses beauty.
1.
I Have the fairest
non-perell,
The fairest that ever was seen,
And had not
Venus been in the way,
She had been beauties Queen.
2.
Her lovely looks, her comely grace,
I will describe at large;
God
Cupid put her in his bookes,
And of this Jem took charge.
3.
The
Graecian Hellen was a Moore,
Compar'd to my dear Saint,
And faire fac'd
Hyrens beauty poor,
And yet she doth not paint.
4.
Andromeda whom
Peseus lov'd
Was foule were she in sight,
Her lineaments so well approv'd,
In praise of her I'le write.
5.
Her haire not like the golden wire,
But black as any Crow,
Her browes so betl'd all admire,
Her forehead wondrous low.
6.
Her squinting stareing gogling eyes,
Poor children doe affright,
Her nose is of the Sarasens size;
Oh she's a matchlesse wight.
7.
Her Oven mouth wide open stands,
And teeth like rotten pease,
Her Swan-like neck my heart commands,
And breasts all bit with Fleas.
8.
Her tawny dugs like too great hills,
Hang Sow-like to her waste,
Her body huge like two Wind-mills,
And yet shee's wondrous chaste.
9.
Her shoulders of so large a breadth,
Shee'd make an excellent Porter,
And yet her belly carries most,
If any man could sort her.
10.
No Shoulder of Mutton like her Hand,
For broadnesse, thick and fat,
With a pocky Mange upon her Wrist;
Oh
Jove! how love I that?
11.
Her Belly Tun-like to behold,
Her bush doth all excell,
The thing that's by, all men extol'd,
Is wider then a Well.
12.
Her brawny buttocks plump and round,
Much like a Horse of Warre,
With speckled Thighs, scan'd and scarce sound;
Her Knees like Bakers are.
13.
Her Legs are like the Elephants,
The Calfe and small both one,
Her Anckles they together meet,
And still knock bone to bone.
14.
Her pretty feet not 'bove fifteens,
So splay'd as never was,
An excellent Usher for a man
That walkes the dewy grasse.
15.
Thus have you heard my Mistrisse prais'd,
And yet no flattery us'd,
Pray tell me, is she not of worth?
Let her not be abus'd.
16.
If any to her have a minde,
He doth me wondrous wrong,
For as shee's Beauteous, so shee's Chaft,
And thus conclude my Song.
A SONG.
1.
WHen young folkes first begin to love,
And undergoe that tedious taske,
It cut's and scowres throughout the powers
Much like a running glasse.
2.
It is so full of sodain joyes
Proceeding from the Heart,
So many tricks, and so many toyes,
And all not worth a Fart.
3.
For
Venus loved
Vulcan,
Yet she would lye with
Mars,
If these be honest tricks my love,
sweet love come kisse mine
4.
If that which I have writ,
Be unmannerly in speech,
Yet when occasion serves to shire,
Will serve to wipe your breech.
5.
Thus kindly and in Courtesie,
These few lines I have written,
And now O love come kisse mine
For I am all beshitten.
A Song of the Sea-Men and Land-soldiers.
1.
WE Sea-men are the bonny-boyes,
That feare no stormes nor Rocks a,
Whose Musick is the Canons noise,
Whose sporting is with knocks a.
2.
Mars has no children of his owne,
But we that fight on Land a;
Land-soldiers Kingdomes up have blown,
Yet they unshaken stand a.
3.
'Tis brave to see a tall Ship faile,
With all her trim gear on a,
As though the Devill were in her taile,
She fore the winde will run a.
4.
Our maine battalia when it moves,
there's no such glorious thing a,
Where leaders like so many
Joves
Abroad their thunder fling a.
5.
Come let us reckon what Ships are ours,
The
Gorgon and the
Dragon,
The
Lyon that in fight is bold,
The
Bull with bloody flag on.
6.
Come let us reckon what Workes are ours,
Forts, Bulwarks, Barricadoes,
Mounts, Gabions, parrapits, countermurs,
Casemates and Pallisadoes.
7.
The
Bear, the
Dog, the
Fox, the
Kite,
That stood fast on the Rover,
They chas'd the
Turk in a day and night,
From
Scandaroon to
Dover.
8.
Field-pieces, Muskets, Groves of Pikes,
Carbines and Canoneers a,
Squadrons, half Moons, with Rankes and Files,
And Fronts, and Vans, and Reers a.
9.
A Health to brave Land-soldiers all,
Let Cans a piece goe round a,
Pell-mell let's to the Battaile fall,
And lofty musick sound a.
A Song,
MY dear and onely love take heed,
How thou thy selfe expose,
And let no longing Lovers feed,
On such like looks as those.
I'le Marble wall thee round about,
Being built without a door:
But if my Love doth once break out,
I'le never love thee more.
Nor let their Oaths by volleys shot,
Make any breach at all;
Nor smoothnesse of their language plot
A way to scale the wall,
Nor balls of Wilde-fire Love consume,
The shrine that I adore,
For if such smoak about thee fume,
I'le never love thee more.
Thy wishes are as yet too strong,
To suffer by surprize,
And victed with my Love so long,
Of force the siege must rife;
And leave thee in that strength of health,
And state thou wert before:
But if thou prove a Common-wealth,
I'le never love thee more.
Or if by fraud, or by consent,
My heart to ruine come,
I'le ne'r sound Trumpet as I meant,
Nor march by beat of Drum:
But fould mine Armes like Ensignes up,
Thy falshood to deplore,
And after such a bitter cup,
I'le never love thee more.
Then doe by thee as
Nero did,
When
Rome was set on fire,
Not onely all reliefe forbid,
But to a hill retire;
And scorne to shed a teare to save
Such spirits grown so poore,
But laugh and sing thee to thy grave,
And never love thee more.
A Song.
1.
WHen
Phoebus address'd his course to the West,
And took up his rest below,
And
Cynthia agreed in a glittering weed,
Her light in his stead to bestow.
I travel▪d alone, attended by none,
Till sodainly I heard one cry;
Oh doe not, doe not kill me yet,
For I am not prepared to aye.
2.
With that I came neer, to see and to hear,
And there did appeare a show;
The Moon was so bright, I saw such a sight,
Not fit that each wight should know.
A Man and a Maid together were laid,
And ever she cry'd, Oh fye!
Oh doe not, doe not kill me yet,
For I am not prepared to dye.
3.
The young man was rough, and he took up her stuffe,
And to blind man buffe he would go;
Yet still she did cry, but still she did lye,
And put him but by with a no:
But she was so young, and he was so strong,
Which made her still to cry,
Oh doe not, doe not kill me,
For I am not prepared to dye.
4.
With that he gave o're, and solemnly swore,
He would kill her no more that night,
He bid her adue, for little he knew,
She would tempt him to more delight.
But being to depart, it grieved her heart,
Which made her loud to cry,
Oh kill me, kill me once againe,
For now I am prepared to dye.
A SONG.
I Courted a Lasse, my folly was the cause of her disdaining;
I courted her thus, what shall I sweet
Dolly, doe for thy dear loves obteining?
But another had dallied with this my
Dolly, that
Dolly for all her faining,
Had got such a Mountain above her Valley, that
Dolly went home complaining.
Upon my Lord Majors day, being put off by reason of the Plague.
IF you'l but hear me I shall tell,
A sad mischance that late befell, for which the dayes of old,
In all new Almanacks must mourne,
And Babes that never must be borne, shall weep to hear it told.
For loe the sport of that great day,
In which the Major hath leave to play, and with him all the town;
H
[...]s Flag, and Drum, and Fife releas'd,
And he forbid to goe a Feasting
in his Scarlet Gowne,
No Fife must on the Thames be seen,
To fright the Major, and please the Queen,
nor any wilde-fire tost.
Though he suppose the Fleet that late,
Invaded us in eighty eight,
o're matcht by his Gally foist.
The Pageants, and the painted cost
B
[...]stowed on them, are all quite lost,
for now he must not ride:
Nor shall they sheare the Players tall,
Being mounted on some mighty Whale,
swims with him through Cheap-side.
Guild-hall now must not entertaine
The Major, who there would feast his brain,
with white-broth and with Hen:
Nor shall the Fencers act their Piggs,
Before the Hinch-boyes which are Giggs,
whipt out with all the men.
Nor must he goe in state to sweare,
As he was wont at
Westminster,
no Trumpets at the Hall.
Their clamorous voices there would stretch,
As if the Lawyers they would teach,
in their owne Courts to baul.
But what in sooth is pitty most,
Is for their Daughters they have lost,
all joyes for which they pray:
Which scatter palmes on their cheeks,
Which they had prim'd at least three weeks
before against the day.
And 'mongst themselves they much complain,
That this Lord Major in first of reigne,
should doe them so much wrong.
As to suppresse by message sad,
The feast for which they all have had,
their March-pane dream so long.
Thus for their beauteous sakes have I,
Describ'd the dayes large History,
'tis true although not witty:
Which is deny'd, for I'de be loath,
To cut my coat, above my cloath,
my Subject is the City.
A Song by Sir John Suckling.
OUt upon it, I have lov'd, three whole dayes together,
And perchance might love three more, if that it hold faire weather;
Time shall melt his wing away, e're he can discover
In the whole wide world againe, such a constant lover.
But a pox upon't, no praise there is due at all to me.
Love with me had had no stay, had it any been but she:
Had it any been but she, and that very very face,
There had been long time e're this, a dozen dozen in her place.
The Answer by the same Author.
SAy, but did you love so long? in sooth I needs must blame ye,
Passion did your judgement wrong, and want of Reason shame ye;
Truth, Times faire and witty Daughter, quickly did discover,
You were a subject fit for laughter, and more Fool then Lover.
Yet you needs must merit praise for your constant folly,
Since that you lov'd three whole dayes, were you not melancholly?
She for whom you lov'd so true, and that very very face,
Puts each minute such as you, a dozen dozen to disgrace.
Upon an old Scold.
JOve lay thy Majesty aside, and wonder
so hear a voice in consort with thy Thunder,
Whilst thine with a shrill treble neatly graces,
The roaring clamour of her deep-mouth'd basis;
Yet in each point, her nimble chops run on,
The lubrick touches of division.
And when her kindled thoughts, her tongue inspire
Instead of words, like
Etna, she spits fire:
So in a word, (to her eternall fame)
Shee'l exercise thy thunder, and thy flame;
Old Time had pull'd her teeth out, but they'r sprung
Again, more sharp and active in her tongue.
In her Malignant Aspect doth appear,
The season of the Dog-dayes all the yeare.
With her sowre look she might convert the Sea,
And all the Elements to Curds and Whea.
On a deformed old Woman (whorish) whom one was pleased to call the Phoenix.
ARt thou the
Phoenix? I could rather swear,
Thou art
Callisto, chang'd into a Bear;
Or else thou then transformed but in part,
And so laid by, halfe Bear, halse Woman art:
Or art thou
Io, whom adulterate
J
[...]ve,
Long since, when thou wert beautifull did love:
And jealous
Juno for thy crime hath now
Chang'd thee into a foule mishapen Cow;
But thou the badge of thy disgrace now scornes,
And makes thy harmlesse Husband wear thy hornes.
He that can call thee
Phoenix from his heart,
Must needs be such another as thou art.
Or he to sacred beauty had a spite,
(Like those that use to paint the Devill white)
And calling thee the
Phoenix hath out-gone,
All that revenge could e're think upon;
He had more truly spoke, and might with lesse
Despight have call▪d the Devill his Holinesse.
Should but thy picture be expos'd to sight,
And under it the name of
Phoenix write; wou'd,
They that ne'r knew what meant the
Phoenix
Strait swear by it, the Devill was understood.
Upon Sir John Suckling.
1.
I'Le tell thee
Jack thou'st given the King,
So rare a present that no thing,
Could welcomer have been;
An hundred horse beshrew my heart,
It was a Noble, Gentile part,
The like will scarce be seen.
2.
Nay more then so, thy selfe dost goe,
In person to affront thy foe,
And kill the Lord knows whom:
But faith were all men of thy minde,
I thinke thou hadst rather stay behinde,
'Tis safer being at home.
3.
And now methinkes I see thee charge,
Thy selfe with freedome to enlarge,
'Gainst foes that make a salley;
Courage my heart, courage my
John,
I wish thou gost more boldly on,
Then in Black-Friers Alley.
4.
I would advise thee take this course,
Be sure to mount the speediest horse,
Of all the troop thou givest:
That when the Battailes once begun,
Thou swiftly then away maist run,
And shew us that thou livest.
5.
Thou shalt be entertained here,
By Ladies that doe hold thee deare,
By day and eke by night:
They'l make thee doe as Love commands,
Pull Warres fierce Gantlets from those hands,
Were never made to fight.
6.
Since under
Mars thou wert not borne,
To
Venus fly and thinke no scorne,
Let it be my advice,
Leave Warres and thankfull be to Fate,
Recovered hath thy lost Estate,
By Carding and by Dice.
7.
And every Horse shall have on's back,
A Man as valiant as Sir
Jack,
Although not halfe so witty,
Yet I did hear the other day,
Three Tailors made seaven run away,
Good faith the mores the pitty.
Sir John Suckling 's Answer.
1.
I'Le tell thee foole who e're thou be,
That mad'st this fine song of me,
Thou art a riming Sot;
These very lines doe thee betray,
Their barren wit makes all men say,
'Twas some rebellious Scot.
2.
But 'tis no wonder if you sing,
Such songs of me that am no King,
When every Blow-cap swears;
Hee'l not obey King
James his barne,
That hugs a Bishop under his Arm,
And hangs him in his Ears.
3.
Had I been of your Covenant,
You▪d call me Son of
John Agant,
And give me great renown:
But now I am
John for the King,
You say I am a poor
Suckling,
And thus you cry me down.
4.
Well 'tis no matter what you say,
Of me, or mine, that ran away,
I hold it no good fashion:
A Loyall Subjects blood to spill,
When we have knaves enough to kill,
By force of Proclamation.
5.
Commend me unto
Lashly stout,
And his fellow Pedlars round about,
Tell them without remorse;
That I will plunder all the packs,
Which they have got with stolne knick knacks,
With these my hundred horse.
6.
This holy Warre, this zealous firk,
Against the Bishop and the Kirk,
Is a pretended bravery:
Religion all the world can tell,
Amongst Highlandlers ne'r did dwell.
It's but to cloak their knavery.
7.
Such desperate gamesters as you be,
I cannot blame for tutoring me,
Since all you have is down:
And every boor forsakes his Plow,
And swears that heel turn gamester now,
To venture for a Crowne.
A Gentleman on his being trim'd by a Cobler.
MY haire grown rude, and
Gally's bridge broke down,
Which dam'd my passage to
Carmarthen Town;
Trim'd was I, I am sure, but by what monster,
If I describe him, you will hardly Conster:
'Tis one whose foot is in the stirrup still
Yet never rides, waxes each houre more ill,
Yet ever mends; can make a bad Soul better.
Yet no Divine, nor scarce doth know a letter.
He's alwayes sowing, yet ne'r useth needle,
Put, folkes i'th stocks, yet is no beggars beadle.
Mens legs he stretcheth often on a tree,
Yet free from th' Gallows, and the Hangmans fee
Let a Consumption some to skellitons waste,
He will be sure to ease'um at the last;
And yet is no Physitian, he▪s still knocking,
Yet breaks no peace, nor need his doors unlocking.
He alwayes sits, yet Table wants, and Carpet,
But looks like a scab'd Sheep, tane from a Tar pit.
This lovely gallant, with his well-pitcht thumbe,
And Leather Apron on, my hide did thrumb;
And par'd my face, 'twere worth the sight to have bin
To see his oilely joynts about my chin.
Carmarthen Barbers be not quite dismayed,
Though
Kit the Cobler undertake your trade;
'Twas only done that his best friends might feel,
How perfect he is made from Head to Heel.
On Jack Wiseman.
JAck Wiseman brags his very name
Proclaimes his wit, he's much to blame,
To doe the Proverb so much wrong,
Which sayes he's wise that holds his tongue;
Which makes me contradict the Scooles,
And apt to thinke the vise men fools.
Yet pardon
Jack, I hear that now
Thou'rt wed, and must thy wit allow,
That by a strange aenigma can,
Make a light Woman a
Wiseman.
Love blinde, a Song.
1.
LOve blind? who saies so? 'tis a lye,
I'le not believe it, no not I;
If Love be blinde, how can he then
Discerne to hit the hearts of men?
Yet pause a while, it may be true,
Or else hee'd wound the Womens too.
2.
The Females onely scape? nay then,
The lad has got his eyes agen;
And yet methinkes 'tis strange that he
Should strike at randome thus, and fee;
I'th' guiding still to fixe his dart,
And leave untoucht the stubborne heart.
3.
Love blinde? how can his darts surprize
Our hearts then, piercing through our eyes?
Unlesse by secret power guided,
Lest he by us should be derided,
It be the little Archers minde,
To make us all as he is, blinde.
The Anglers Song.
I'Th' non-age of the Morn we got up,
If plots had tane all night, w'had sate up:
Howe're, before the Sun took Coach,
We were with Bream, and Pike, and Roach:
But if you'd know how we thus early
Addrest to th' field, I'le tell you squarely.
Th' Alarum of a Watch ingages,
And doth provoke our stout courages:
For that at houre of three wo'nt dally,
So up we rose, and forth we sally.
Of Fish we mean a flat massacre,
And so we march o're many an Acre.
And that you mayn't our deeds misconster,
Pray wot you well there is a monster;
Who with tyrannick power doth seize on,
(As greedy mortalls feed on peason)
Th' oppressed frie, he's hight the Pike,
Who oftentimes doth lurke in Dyke.
So on we goe, and much we brag,
Though each behinde his fellow lag.
As home we came, that in our dish
What proverb saith (as mute as Fish)
You might have throwne: but this rare story,
I'le not so rudely lay before ye.
But at preceding points wee'l touch,
Though you perhaps will think't too much,
But those I am resolv'd to give ye,
Though I'm voluminous as
Livie.
Of Dew there was a gallant draught,
Which when the Sun arose he quaft:
But 'cause he did not rise so soon,
I'th' interim we had wet our shoon.
When we came neer the place call'd Breach-pond,
(I wish that it had been in Dutch lond)
And that our fancies 'gan to gallop,
A thick blue mist did us invellop:
Which caus'd us to commit an error,
But yet we march on without feare or
Wit, untill that we arrive us,
There where our fishing fate did drive us.
But there we met with an ill Omen,
For at the pond side there were some men,
Which were so bold as to cry pish,
As Proverb sayes,
hee'l catch no fish
That swears; which they did stoutly,
As they did the pond about lye.
These men some bottels of Canary,
To keep the Mists and Damps did carry;
Although we did not ken a wight,
Yet lovingly they us invite,
That of their Sack wee'd take a dish,
Which was not bought to Fox the Fish.
We left them and betook our selves,
With baits to Court the watry Elves;
There we did practise Arts most quaint,
But rogish Fish they were so daintty,
that they would not bite,
But all our pretious morsels flight;
Though divers of them cost much money,
(Among the rest was Loaf and Honey.)
We count the cost to ten pence sterlin,
All which into the pond we hurl in.
The Proverb here should be inserted,
But I am loath 't should be inverted:
Do what I can it needs will our,
Loose a Fly, and catch a Trout,
How e're this adage goes, we are far,
From losing of a Hog for Tarre.
So that's on our side still I see,
One Proverb that's our enemy.
For as we did our businesse handle,
Our sport it was not worth the Candle.
But to returne, the winde did bluster,
So we came home all in a cluster.
Our heads hung down, our hands in pocket,
And all our patience burn't to th'socket:
Onely by th'way we tride our skill,
But the same Planet govern'd still
That rul'd i'th morne: so home we hy'd us,
And blame those Planets which that day had spi'd us,
W
th blinking aspects, grutching our good fortune
Though we most zealously did them importune.
But the next day new sorrow administred,
For all our feet were with our travell blistred.
J. N.
A Song.
1.
SHe lay all naked in her bed,
And I my selfe lay by;
No Vail but Curtaines about her spread,
No covering but I.
Her head upon her shoulder seeks,
To hang in carelesse wise,
All full of blushes was her cheeks,
And of wishes were her eyes.
2.
The blood still fresh into her face,
As on a message came,
To say that in another place,
It meant another game.
Her cherry lips, moist, plump and faire,
Millions of kisses crown,
Which ripe and uncropt dangled there,
And weigh the branches down.
3.
Her Breasts that swell'd so plump and high,
Bred pleasant pain in me,
For all the world I doe defie,
The like felicity.
Her thighs and belly soft and faire,
To me were onely shewn,
To have seen such meat, and not to have eat,
Would have angred any stone.
4.
Her knees lay upward gently bent,
And all lay hollow under,
As if on easie termes they meant,
To fall unforc't asunder.
Just so the
Cyprian Queen did lye,
Expecting in her Bower;
When too long stay, had kept the boy,
Beyond his promised houre.
5.
Dull clown, quoth she, why dost delay
Such proffered blisse to take?
Can'st thou finde out no other way
Similitude to make?
Mad with delight I thundering,
Threw my Armes about her,
But pox upon't 'twas but a dream,
And so I lay without her.
6.
She lay up to the Navel bare,
As was a willing Lover,
Expecting between hope and feare,
Wh
[...] I would come and cover
Her hand beneath my wast-band slips,
To grope in busie wise,
Which caused a trembling in her lips,
And a trembling in her eyes.
7.
The blood out of her face did goe,
As it on service went,
To second what was gone before,
When all its strength was spent.
Her Cheeks and Lips as Corall redd,
Like Roses were full blown:
Which fading streight, the leaves were spread,
And so the seed comes downe.
8.
Her breasts that then both panting were,
Such comfort wrought between us,
That all the world I dare to sweare,
Would envy to have seen us.
Her belly and its provinder,
For me was kept in store;
Such newes to hear, and not to have share,
Would have made a man a Whore.
9.
Her Legs were girt about my waste,
My hand under her Crupper,
As who should say now break your face,
And come againe to supper.
Even as the God of Warre did knock,
As any other man will,
For hast of worke, till twelve of clock,
Kept Vulcan at his Anvill.
10.
Mad wag, quoth she, why dost thou make
Such haste thy selfe to reare?
Canst thou not know that for thy sake,
The Faire lasts all the yeare?
Quiet and calme as are loves streames,
I threw my selfe about her,
But apox upon true jests and dreames,
I had better have laine without her.
A Song.
1.
FUll forty times over, I have strived to win,
Full forty times over neglected have been,
But it's forty to one, but I'le tempt her againe:
For he's a dull lover,
That so will give over,
Seeing thus runs the sport,
Seeing thus runs the sport,
And assault her but often you'l carry the fort,
Seeing thus runs the sport,
And assault her but often you'l carry the fort.
2.
There's a breach ready made, which still open hath bin,
And thousands of thoughts to betray it within,
If you once come to storme her, you're sure to get in.
Then stand not off coldly,
But venter on boldly,
With weapon in hand,
With weapon in hand,
If you doe but approach her, she's not able to stand.
With weapon in hand.
If you charge her but home she's not able to stand,
3.
Some Ladies when down them before you do sit,
Will strive to repulse you with fire-balls of wit,
But alas they'r but Crackers and seldom do hit;
Then vanquish them after,
With Alarums of laughter,
Their forces being broke,
Their forces being broke,
And the fire quite past, you may vanquish the smoak,
Their forces being broke,
And the fire quite past, you may vanquish the smoak.
4.
With pride and with state some outworks we make,
And with volleyes of frownes drive the enemy back,
If you minde them discreetly they are easie to take,
Then to it, nere fear them,
But boldly come neer them,
By working about,
By working about,
If you once but approach, they can nere hold it out,
By working about,
If you once but approach, they can nere hold it out.
5.
Some Ladies with blushes and modesty fight,
And with their own feare, the rude foe doth affright,
But they'r easie surpriz'd, if you come in the night.
Then thus you must drive it,
To parley in private,
And the'yr overthrowne,
If you promise them so fairely, they'l soon be your own,
And the'yr overthrown.
If you promise them so fairely, they'l soon be your own.
A SONG.
WEe'l go no more to
Tunbridge wells,
The journey is too farre,
Nor ride in
Epsome Wagon where
Our bodies jumbled are.
But we will all to the West-wood waters goe,
The best that e're you saw,
And we will have them henceforth call'd
The Kentish new found Spaw.
Then goe Lords and Ladies what e're you aile,
Go thither all that pleases,
For it will cure you without all faile,
Of old and new diseases.
If you would know how it was out found,
The truth I cannot tell,
Some say it was by Doctor
Trig, and so became a Well.
Others affirme his Patient,
Which did much paine endure,
Went thither and washt a festered sore,
And had a perfect cure.
Then goe, &c.
Thither all the Countrey people flock,
By day and eke by night,
And for to fill their bottles full,
They scramble, scratch and fight.
But when the Gentry thither come,
And others of good fashion,
There is presented unto them,
A fine accommodation,
Then goe, &c.
Joans hole was the first was dig'd,
My Ladies was next after,
When you are there, you'l hardly taste,
Which is the better water.
For it is so that my Ladies hole,
Is digged so neer to
Jone,
That and if the people be too rude,
They will break both holes in one,
Then goe, &c.
Ladyes there you may your bodies cleanse,
By stoole and Urine too,
Twill make you have a stomack too't,
Whether you will or no.
There you may skip behinde a bush,
A fitting place to finde,
'Twill make you ope and shut your purse,
Before and eke behinde,
Then goe, &c.
If I should tell you it would cure,
Each malady and grief,
Perhaps you would be like other men,
Or People past beliefe.
Therefore I pray will you thinke it sit,
Go thither all and try,
And when you have approv'd of it,
You'l say as much as I.
Then goe, &c.
Of banishing the Ladies out of Town.
1.
A Story strange I will unfold,
Then which a sadder ne're was told,
How the Ladies were from
London sent,
With mickle woe and discontent.
2.
A heart of Marble would have bled,
To see this rout of white and red,
Both
Yorke and
Lancaster must fly,
With all their painted Monarchy.
3.
Those faces which men so much prize,
In Mrs
Gibbs her Liveries,
Must leave their false and borrowed hue,
And put on griefe that's onely true.
4.
Those pretty patches long and round,
Which covered all that was not sound;
Must be forgotten at the Farmes,
As uselesse and suspitious charmes.
5.
Now we must leave all our designes,
That were contriv'd within the Lines;
Communinacion is destroyed,
If to our Husbands we be tryed.
6.
And here's the misery alone,
We must have nothing but our own;
Oh give us Liberty and we
Will never aske propriety.
7.
Alas how can a kisse be sent,
From Rocky
Cornwall into
Kent?
Or how can
Sussex stretch an arme,
To keep a Northerne servant warme?
8.
Oh
London! Centre of all Mirth,
Th'Epitome of English Earth;
All Provinces are in the streets,
And
Warwick-shire with
Essex meets.
9.
Then farewell Queens-street, and the Fields,
And Garden that such pleasure yeilds,
Oh who would such faire Lodgings change,
To nestle in a plunder'd grange.
10.
Farewell good places old and new,
And
Oxford Kates once more adieu;
But it goes unto our very hearts,
To leave the Cheese-cakes and the Tarts.
11.
Farewell Bridge-foot and Bear thereby,
And those bald-pates that stand so high,
We wish it from our very soules,
That other heads were on those powles.
12.
But whether heads of Parliament,
Or of Husbands we're content,
Since all alike such Traitors be,
Both against us and Monarchie.
A SONG.
1.
'TIs not your vertues make you to refuse me,
Women are often coy, though seldome chast,
How e're you use me,
And seeme strait lac't,
The fruit in the midst of the Garden plac't,
You long to Tast.
2.
Thinke not to cheat me then with seeming coldnesse,
You doe but counterfeit when you seem nice;
A little boldnesse
Will thaw that Ice,
He spoiles his market, sets to high a price,
On your device.
A SONG.
1.
LAy that sulley Garland by thee,
Keep it for the
Elyzian shades;
Take my Wreathes of lusty Ivy,
Not of that faint mirtle made.
When I see thy Soule descending,
To that cool and sterrill plaine
Of fond fooles, the Lake attending,
You shall weare this wreath againe.
Then drinke wine, and know the odds,
'Twixt that Lethe, 'twixt that Lethe,
'Twixt that Lethe, and the Gods.
2.
Rouse thy dull and drowsie spirits,
Behold the soule reviving streams,
The stupid Lovers braines inherits;
Nought but dull and empty dreames.
Thinke not then those dismall trances,
With our raptures can contend:
The Lad that laughs, and sings, and dances,
May come sooner to his end.
Sadnesse may some pitty move,
Mirth and Courage vanquish Love.
3.
Fye then on that cloudy fore-head,
Ope those vainly crossed armes,
You may as well call back the buried,
As raise Love by such dull charmes.
Sacrifice a Glasse of Claret,
To each letter of her name,
Gods themselves descended for it,
Mortalls must doe more the same.
If she come not in that flood,
Sleep will come, and that's as good.
An Answer.
1.
CAst that Ivy-Garland from thee,
Leave it for some ruder blade,
Venus Wreathes will best become me,
Not of blazing
Bacchus made.
When my high flown soule ascended,
To Loves bright and warmer sphear;
Whilst with
Chaplets I'me attended,
Then an Ivy bush shall weare.
Sober Lovers some may prove,
Mortalls tipple, mortalls tipple,
Gods doe love.
2.
Welcome merry melancholly,
Fancying beauties quicking beames,
Boone Companions will though jolly,
Shrink in over wetting streames.
Think not that these ranting humours,
May with modesty contend;
Lesser love toyes often doe more,
When they come unto their end.
Purenesse may some pitty move,
Sober carriage charme a Love.
3.
Offer up a yoke of kisses,
To the Lady you adore,
Jove for such a blisse as this is,
Would come downe as heretofore.
If this way she can't be had,
Drinking comes, and that's as bad.
A Song.
1.
NO mans love fiery passions can approve,
As either yeilding pleasure & promotion,
I like of milde and luke-warme zeale in Love,
Although I doe not like it in devotion.
2.
For it hath no coherence in my Creed,
To thinke that Lovers doe as they pretend;
If all that say they dye, had died indeed,
Sure long e're this, the world had had an end.
3.
Besides, we need not love unlesse we please,
No destiny can force mans disposition;
And how can any dye of that disease,
Whereof himselfe may be his own Physitian?
4.
Some one perhaps with long Consumption dry'd,
And after falling into Love may dye;
But I dare pawn my life, he nere had died,
Had he been halfe so sound at heart as I.
5.
Another rather then incur the slander,
Of true Apostate, will false Martyr prove;
But I am neither
Orpheus nor
Leander,
I'le neither hang nor drown my selfe for love.
6.
Yet I have been a Lover by report,
And dyed for love, as many others doe,
But thanks to Jove, it was in such a sort,
That I reviv'd within an houre or two.
7.
Thus have I liv'd, thus have I lov'd till now,
And know no reason to repent me yet,
And whosoever otherwise shall doe,
His courage is as little as his wit.
A SONG.
1.
DEare
Castodoris let me rise,
Aurora'gins to jeer me,
And say that I doe wantonize,
I prethee sweet lye neer me.
2.
Let Red
Aurora blush my deare,
And
Phoebus laughing follow,
Thou onely art
Aurora here,
Let me be thine
Apollo.
3.
It is to envy at thy blisse,
That they doe rise before us,
Is there such hurt in this, or this,
Nay, aye, why
Castodorus.
4.
What
Arabella can one night
Of wanton dalliance try you?
I could be ever, if I might,
One houre let me desire you.
5.
Nay fye, you hurt me, let me goe,
If you so roughly use me,
What can I say, or thinke of you?
I prethee sweet excuse me.
6.
Thy Beauty and thy Love defend,
I should ungently move thee,
'Tis blysses sweet that I intend,
Is it not I that love thee?
7.
I doe confesse it is but then,
Since you doe so importune;
That I should once lye down agen,
Vouchsafe to draw the Curtaine:
8.
Aurora and
Apollo too,
May visit silent fields;
By our consent, they nere shall know,
What blisse our plesaure yeelds.
A Song.
1.
BEauty and Love once fell at odds,
And thus reviled each other,
Quoth Love, I am one of the Gods,
And thou wait'st on my Mother.
Thou hast no power on Men at all,
But what I gave to thee,
Nor art thou longer faire or sweet,
Then men acknowledge thee.
2.
Away fond Boy, then Beauty said,
We know that thou art blinde,
And men have judging eyes and can
My graces better finde,
'Twas I begat thee all mortalls know,
And call'd thee blind desire,
I made thy Quiver and thy Bow,
And wings to fan the fire.
3.
Love straight in anger fled away,
And thus to Vulcan pray'd,
That he would dip his Shafts,
To punish this poor Maid.
So beauty ever since hath been,
But counted for an Whore,
To love a day were now a sinne,
'Gainst
Cupid and his power.
A North Countrey Song.
1.
WHen I'se came first to
London Town,
I wor a Novice as other men are;
I thought the King had liv'd at the Crown,
And the way to'l Heaven had been through the Starre.
2.
Ise set up my Horse, and Ise went to
Pouls,
Good Lord, quo I, what a Kirk been here;
Then did Ise sweare by all Kerson souls,
It wor a mile long, or very near.
3.
It wor as high as any Hill,
A Hill, quo I, nay as a Mountaine,
Then went Ise up with a very good will,
But glad wor I to come down again.
4.
For as I went up, my head roe round,
Then be it known to all Kerson people,
A man is no little way fro the ground,
When he's o'th top of all
Poles steeple.
5.
Ise laid down my Hot, and Ise went to pray,
But wor not this a most piteous case,
Afore I had don it wor stolne away,
Who'd have thought theevs had been in that place?
6.
Now for mine Hot Ise made great moan,
A stander by unto me said,
Thou didst not observe the Scripture aright,
For thou mun a watcht, as well as a pray'd.
7
Forth thence Ise went and I saw my Lord Major,
Good lack what a sight was there to see,
My Lord and his Horse, were both of a haire,
I could not tell which the Mare should be.
8.
From thence to
Westminster, I went,
Where many a brave Lawyer I did see,
Some of them had a bad intent,
For there my purse was stolne from me.
9.
To see the Tombes was my desire,
I went with many brave fellowes store,
I gave them a penny that was their hire,
And he's but a foole that will give any more.
10.
Then through the roomes the fellow me led,
Where all the sights were to be seen,
And snuffling told me through the nose,
What formerly the name of the those had been,
11.
Here lyes, quoth he,
Henry the third,
Thou ly'st like a Knave, he sayes never a word,
And here lies
Richard the second inter'd,
And heres stands good King
Edwards sword.
12.
Under this Chair lyes
Jacobs stone,
The very same stone lies under the Chaire,
A very good jest, had
Jacob but one,
How got he so many Sons without a paire?
13.
I staid not there, but down with the Tide,
I made great hast, and I went my way;
For I was to see the Lions beside,
And the Parris-garden all in a day.
14.
When Ise came there, I was in a rage,
I rayl'd on him that kept the Beares,
Instead of a Stake was suffered a Stage,
And in Hunkes his house a crue of Players.
15.
Then through the Brigg to the Tower Ise went,
With much adoe Ise entred in,
And after a Peny that I had spent,
One with a loud voice did thus begin:
16.
This Lion's the Kings, and that is the Queens,
And this is the Princes that stands hereby,
With that I went neer to look in the Den,
Cods body, quoth he, why come you so nigh?
17.
Ise made great hast unto my Inne,
I supt and I went to bed betimes,
Ise slept, and Ise dream't what I had seen,
And wak't againe by Cheapside Chimes.
Verses written over the Chair of Ben: Johnson, now remaining at Robert Wilsons, at the signe of Johnson's head in the Strand.
WE ask not
Ben, what's the design, did raise,
This
Mausoleum, to thy flesh or bayes?
Whether to eate, to write, to drink, to shite,
To hug thy Wench, to give thy friend the right
Of entertainment, with the lusty Wine,
We scruple not, great
Genius, 'tis Divine:
And though our Nation could afford no room,
Near
Chaucer, Spencer, Draiton, for thy tomb;
What thou ordain'st, though for thy pleasures, more
Then Pyramids or Marbles guilded o're.
Here, here thou livest, and from thy latest night,
Breakest forth into our world, with mirth and light,
Whom thus great Soule we celebrate, but first
Smile on our Liquor ere we quench our thirst:
Appease thy
Horace, when he views us here,
Doing homage to thy name in Ale or Beer.
We acknowledge
Ben, here shin'd
Ariadne's flame,
Sack was the Morning, Evening of thy name:
Thy
Herculean Muse did rage at
Inigo,
With feavered flames, not with flight so low;
But since the destinies have hither hurl'd,
Thy vast contrivance with another world
Of different fate, and a still clouded Sky,
Our Fortunes cannot reach a pitch so high.
Befriend us,
Ben, be kind unto us now;
Inspire thy Chair, from thy
Elesian bough:
This grove of Lawrell, though at this low rate,
Let it expresse what we but imitate.
Let thy great Muse, give to our drink new birth,
Antaeus like, to lift us from the Earth;
That whatsoere we swill, carowse, or quaff,
May act thy verse, and live thy Epitaph.
The long Vacation.
NOw Town-wit saith to witty friend,
Transcribe dear Rogue what thou hast pen'd,
For I on journey hold it fit,
To cry thee up, to Countrey wit,
Our Mules are come, dissolve the Club,
The word till Terme is, rub, oh rub!
Now Gamesters poor, in Cloak of stammell,
Mounted on steed as slow as Cammell;
Bottom of Crab in lucklesse hand,
Which serves for Bilboe and for Wand,
Early inth' morn doth sneak from Town,
Lest
Kit for rent should cease on Crown.
One single Crown which he doth keep,
When day is done to pay for sleep:
For he on Journey nought doth eate,
Host spies him come, cries Sir what meat?
He calls for room and down he lies,
Quoth Host no Supper: he cries,
A pox on supper, fling on a Rug,
I'me sick, d'ee heare, yet bring a Jugg.
Now Damsell young that dwells in Cheap,
For very joy begins to leap:
Her Elbow small she oft doth rub,
Tickl'd with hope of Sullybub.
For Mother old that doth maintaine,
Gold on thumb, Key on Silver chaine:
In snow white clout, wraps nook of Pie,
Fat Capons rump, and Rabbits thigh;
And saith to
Hackney Coachman goe,
There's shillings six, say I or no:
Whither quoth he? quoth she thy teame
Must drive to place where groweth Cream.
But Husband Gray: now comes to stall,
And for notcht Prentice he doth call:
Where's Dame quoth he, quoth Son of Shop,
She is gone her cake in milk to sop.
Oh ho to
Islington, enough:
Call
Tom my Son, and our dog Ruffe,
For there in pond through mire and muck,
Wee'l cry hey Duck, hey Ruffe, hey Duck.
Now bawd by mortifying paunch,
'Bates two stone weight on either haunch;
On Bran and Liver she must dine,
'Cause no man comes to solace Chine:
For Bisket stale to fodder gut,
Makes lye on back the
craving slut.
The needy whore bids roaring swash,
That pines (in whiskers long) fetch Cash,
Theres Gown, quoth she: and
Martha's smock,
And coat, that covered
Andrew's nock:
Speak Broaker faire, and tell him, that
The next Tearmes tribute makes us fat.
Now man of warre that wanteth food,
Grows Cholerick, and sweareth, 'S'bloud
He sendeth note to man of kin,
But man leaves word, I am not within.
H
[...] meets inth' street with friend call'd
Will,
And cryes, you Rogue, what living still?
But ere that street they quite have past,
He softly askes, what Money hast?
Quoth friend a Crown: 'S'heart
Thou beast no more? sweet lend me part.
Now
London Major in Saddle new,
Rides into Faire of
Bartholmew:
He twirles his Chaine, and looketh big,
As he would fright the head of Pig:
Which gapeing lyes on greasie stall,
Till Female with huge belly call.
Now Alderman in Field doth stand,
With foot on trig, and quaite in hand.
I'me seaven, quoth he, the game is up,
Nothing I pay, and yet I sup.
To Alderman, quoth neighbonrs then,
I lost but Mutton, play'd for Hen;
But wealthy blade cryes out, at rate
Of King thould'st play, let's goe, 'tis late.
Now
Levite that neer Bride-well dock,
In old blind nook feeds silly flock:
With common course, though spirituall,
Fit food for blade that workes on stall:
These all with solemne Oath agree,
To meet in Fields of
Finsbury,
With loines in Canvas, Bow-case ty'd,
Where Arrowes stick with mickle pride;
With Hat pin'd up, and Bow in hand,
All day so fiercely there they stand,
Like Ghosts of
Adam, Bell and
Clim,
Sol sets for fear they'l shoot at him.
Now Vaulter good, and Dauncing lasse
On Roap: and man that cryes hey tosse,
And tumbler young that needs but stoop,
Lay head to heel, and creep through hoop;
And man that doth in Chest include,
Old
Sodom and
Gomora lewd;
And shews those drabs the sisters two,
That
Lot debauch'd, then made him doe;
And Man that while the Puppets play,
Through Nose expoundeth what they say:
And Ape led Captive still in chaine,
Till he renounce the Pope and
Spaine.
And white Oate eater that doth dwell,
In stable small, at sign of Bell.
That lifts up hoofe to shew the prankes,
Taught by Magician styled
Bankes.
These all on hoof now trudge from town,
To cheat poor Turnup-eating Clown.
Now spinne
Ralph and
Gregory small,
And short hair'd
Stephen, and white fac't
Paul;
Whose times are out, Indentures torne,
That full seaven yeares taught them not scorn
To fetch up Coales for maid to use,
Wipe Mistresse and Childrens shoos;
Hire meager Steeds to ride and see
Their Parents good: who dwell as neer
As place cal'd
Peake in
Derby shire;
There they alight, old Croanes are milde,
Each weeps on Crag of pretty Childe:
They Portions give, Trades up to set,
That babes may live, serve God and cheat.
Now
Kit that trusts with weary thighs,
Seeks Garret where small Poet lies:
He comes to room, findes Garret shut,
Then not with knuckle, but with foot
He roundly knocks: would enter door,
The Poet sleeps not, but doth snore.
Kit chafes like beast of
Libia then,
Sweares hee'l not come nor send agen.
With little lump trianguler,
Straight Poet sighs are heard a farre.
Quoth he, can't noble numbers choose,
But walke on foot, that have no shooes?
Then doth he wish with fervent breath,
As 'twere his last request ere death.
Each ow'd a Bond, each Madrigall,
A Lease from
Haberdashers Hall:
Or else that he deriv'd had been,
From Cod or King, and nock of Queen.
For wight enthroned cares, not an Ace
For
Wood-street friend, that
Weeldech Mace.
Kings pay no scores but when they list,
And treasurer still hath cramp in fist.
Now wight that acts on stage of Bull,
In Scullers barke doth lye at
Hull:
Which he for pennies two doth rig,
All day on Thames to bob for Grig;
Whilst Fencer poor doth by him stand,
In old dung Liter hook in hand,
Between knees rod: with Canvas crib
To girdle tyed; fast under rib;
Where wormes abide, that little fish,
Betray at night to Earthen dish.
Neer house of Lane by Temple Bar,
Now man of Mace cares not how far.
(In stockins blew) he marcheth on,
With Velvet Cape his Cloak upon,
On Girdle scroule, where name of summe,
Is written down, which he with thumb,
On shoulder left, must safe Convey,
Awing sad wight, with name of
Roy.
Poore Prisoners friend that sees the touch,
Cryes out, by God I thought as much.
Now Poet small, to Globe doth run,
And vows to Heaven four acts are done:
Finis to bring he doth protest,
Tells each aside, his part is best:
And all to get as Poets use,
Minerall in pouch to comfort Muse:
But stay, my frighted muse is fled,
My selfe through feare crept under bed;
For just as pen would scribble more,
Fierce City Dun did rap at door.
A Song.
1.
POx take you Mistris I'le be gone,
I have friends to wait upon;
Thinke you I'le my selfe confine,
To your humours (Lady mine.)
No, your louring seems to say:
'Tis a rainy drinking day,
To the Taverne I'le away.
2.
There have I Mistresse got,
Cloystered in a Pottle pot:
Brisk and sprightly as thine Eye,
When thy richest glances fly.
Plump AND bounding lively faire,
Bucksome, soft and debonaire:
And she's call'd Sack my DEARE.
3.
Sack's my better Mistrisse farre,
Sack my onely beauty starre;
Whose rich beames, and glorious raie,
Twinkle in each red rose and face:
Should I all her vertues show,
Thou thy selfe wouldst love-sick prove,
AND shee'd prove thy Mistresse TOO.
4.
She with no dart-scorne will blast me,
But upon thy Bed can cast me;
Yet neer biush her selfe too red,
Nor feare a losse of Maiden-head:
And she can (the truth to say)
Spirits into me convey,
MORE then thou canst take AWAY.
5.
Getting kisses here's no toyle,
Here's no Handkerchif to spoile;
Yet I better Nectar sip,
Then can dwell upon thy lip:
And though mute and still she be,
Quicker wit she brings to me,
THEN e're I could finde in THEE.
6.
If I goe nere thinke to see,
Any more a fool of me;
I'le no liberty up give,
Nor a Maudlin-like Love live.
No, there's nought shall win me to't,
'Tis not all thy smiles can do't,
Nor thy Maiden-head to BOOT.
7.
Yet if thou'lt but take the paine,
TO be good but once againe.
If one smile then call me back,
THOU shalt be that Lady Sack.
Faith but try and thou shalt see,
What a loving Soule I'le be,
WHEN I am drunk with nought but thee.
The Answer.
1.
I Pray thee Drunkard get thee gone,
Thy Mistresse Sack doth smell too strong:
Think you I intend to wed,
A sloven to be-pisse my bed?
No, your staining mee's to say,
You have been drinking all this day,
Goe, begon, away away.
2.
Where you have your Mistresse Sack,
Which hath already spoil'd your back,
And methinkes should be too hot,
To be cloystered in a pot.
Though you say she is so faire,
So lovely and so debonair,
She is but of a yellow haire.
3.
Sack's a Whore which burnes like fire,
Sack consumes and is a dryer;
And her wayes doe onely tend
To bring men unto their end.
Should I all her vices tell,
Her rovings and her swearings fell,
Thou wouldst dam her into Hell.
4.
Sack with no durt scornes will blast thee,
But upon thy Bed still cast thee:
And by that impudence doth show,
That no vertue she doth know:
For she will, the truth to say,
Thy body in an hour decay,
More then I can in a day.
5.
Though for kisses there's no toyle,
Yet your body she doth spoile:
Sipping Nectar whilest you sit,
She doth quite besot your wit:
Though she is mute shee'l make you loud,
Brawle and fight in every crowd,
When your reason she doth cloud.
6.
Nor doe thou ever look to see,
Any more a smile from me;
I'le no liberty, nor signe,
Which I truly may call mine.
No, no slight shall win me to▪t,
'Tis not all thy parts can do't,
Thy Person nor thy Land to boot.
7.
Yet if thou wilt take the paine,
To be sober once againe,
And but make much of my back,
I will be in stead of Sack.
Faith but try, and thou shalt see,
What a loving Soul I'le be,
When thou art drunk with nought but me.
I Had a Love and she was chast,
Alack the more's the pity,
But wot you how my love was chaste,
She was chaste quite through the City.
Upon a Priest that lyes buried in Wells.
A Priest there was of
Wellis,
Where was tinkled a great many Bellies,
And in concordance,
He plaid well on the Organce:
And he was an excellent singer,
And in the world not such a ringer.
A SONG.
WHen Vertue was a Countrey maid,
And had no skill to set up trade,
Was brought to town by a Carriers jade,
That stood at rack and manger:
She took her Whiffe, she drank her Can,
The Pipe was nere out of her span,
She married a Tobacco man,
A stranger.
She set up a Shop in
Hony lane,
Whereto the flies did flock amaine,
Some flew from
France and some from
Spaine,
Brought by the English Pander.
But when the Hony pot grew dry,
And winter came, the Flies must dye:
Her Husband he was forct to flie
From
Flanders.
A Scholers answer to one that sent to borrow his Horse.
RIght Worshipfull
Frank,
I humbly thee thank,
For the kindnesse received of late,
Ingratitude sure I cannot indure,
'Tis a vice that I utterly hate.
I hear you provide a journey to ride,
If any would lend you a Gennit.
I protest before God, mine's all gone abroad,
And won't be at home this sennight.
But yet my kind
Francis, if that it so chances,
That a horse you needs must hire.
If your businesse be hasty, I'le lend you my Masty,
To carry you out of the mire.
'Tis a dainty fine cur,
You need not him spur,
If you his conditions but knew,
For hee'l prance and hee'l gape,
When he carries my Ape,
Much more when he carries you.
A Song.
1.
THere was an old Lad, rode on an old pad,
Unto an old punk a woing;
He laid the old punk, upon an old trunk,
Oh there was good old doing.
2.
There was an old maid, scarce sweet as they said,
In a place I dare not make mention,
She in an old humour lay with a Perfumer,
Oh there was a sweet invention.
3.
The Punk and the Maid, they swear & they said,
That Marriage was servillity;
If Marry you must, for changing of Lust,
Oh well fare a trick of nullity.
4.
There was a mad man did study to frame a
Device, to draw up a prespuce,
She drew up so narrow, a Car might go through,
Oh there was a slender sluce.
5.
Her Earle did appoint her, she said, such a Jointhre,
As was of no validity,
Above twise in a night, he did her no right,
Oh there was a strange frigidity.
6.
But when as her Earle had another girle,
His wimble did pierce her flanke,
His Nag prov'd able, by changing of stable,
O there was a
quod ad hanc.
7.
This dame was inspected, by fraud interjected,
A maid of more perfection,
Whom the Midwives did handle, while the K
nt held the candle,
Oh there was a clear inspection.
8.
Now as forraign writers, cry out of their miters,
That allow this for a virginity,
And talke of Election, and waul of Election;
Oh there was a sound Divinity.
9.
There was a young Lord assumed on his word,
That he would be a Parliament maker,
But see how things alter, he assumed a halter,
Oh there was an undertaker.
10.
He had a sweet friend, which he did commend,
To the keeping of sweet Sir
Jarvis,
They gave him a Clister, made his Belly to blister,
Oh there was a sweet piece of service.
11.
This friend he denied, and would not abide,
A Marriage that so would shame us,
Between the sweet Matron, & this grave patron;
Oh patron of Ignoramus.
12.
Now
Weston and
Horn, and
Turner doe turne,
And say that this plot was fraude,
These may say their pleasure, some thinke hard measure,
Oh Knaves, and Punks, and Bawds.
A Song.
To the Tune of
Packingtons Pound.
1.
MY Masters and friends, and good people draw near,
And look to your Purses, for that I doe say,
And though little money in them you doe wear,
It cost more to get, than to lose in a day;
You oft have been told,
Both the young, and the old,
And bidden beware of the Cutpurse so bold.
Then if you take heed not, free me from this curse,
VVho both give you warning for, and the Cutpurse;
Youth, youth, thou hadst better been starv'd by thy Nurse,
Then live to be hanged for cutting a purse.
2.
It hath been upbraided to men of my Trade,
That oft-times we are the cause of this crime,
Alack and for pitty, why should it be said?
As if they regarded or places or time:
Examples have been,
Of some that were seen,
In
Westminster Hall, yea the Pleaders between.
Then why should the Judges be free from this curse,
More then my poor selfe for cutting the purse?
Youth, youth, &c.
3.
At
Worcester 'tis known well, and even i'th'Jayl,
A Kt. of good worth, did there shew his face,
Against the fraile sinner in rage for to raile,
And lost
(ipso facte) his purse in the place;
Nay ev'n from the seat,
Of Judgement so great,
A Judge there did lose a faire Purse of Velvet,
O Lord for thy mercy how wicked or worse,
Are those that so venter their necks for a Purse I
Youth, youth, &c.
4.
At Playes and at Sermons, and at the Sessions,
'Tis daily their practice such booty to make;
Yea under the Gallowes, at Executions,
They stick not, they stare about Purses to take;
Nay one without Grace,
At a better place,
At
Court and in
Christmas before the Kings face.
Alack then for pitty must I bear the curse,
That onely belong to the cunning Cut-purse?
Youth, youth, &c.
5.
But O you vile Nation of Cutpurses all,
Relent and repent, and amend and be sound,
And know that you ought not by honest men
[...] fall,
To advance your owne fortunes, to dye above ground,
And though you goe gay,
In Silkes as you may,
It is not the highway to Heaven (as they say)
Repent then, repent you, for better, for worse,
And kisse not the Gallowes for cutting a Purse.
Youth, youth, thou hadst better been sterv'd by thy nurse,
Then live to be hanged for cutting a purse.
To the Tune of I waile in woe, I plunge in paine:
OR, LABANDOLA shot.
Verse
1.
IN
Cheapside famous for Gold and Plate,
Quicksilver I did dwell of late:
I had a Master good and kinde,
That would have wrought me to his minde;
He bade me still work upon that,
But alas! I wrought I knew not what!
He was a Touch stone black but true,
And told me still what would ensue;
Yet woe is me I would not learne,
I saw alas! but could not discerne.
Verse
2.
I cast my Coat and Cap away,
I went in Silkes and Sattins gay;
False mettall of good manners I,
Did daily Coyne unlawfully.
I scorn'd my Master, being drunke,
I kept my Gelding and my Punk,
And with a Knight, Sir
Flash by name,
Who now is sorry for the same.
Verse
3.
Still Eastward Hoe was all my word,
But Westward I had no regard;
Nor never thought what would come after,
As did alas his youngest Daughter.
At last the black Oxe trod on my foot,
I saw then what belong'd unto't:
Now cry I, Touch-stone, touch me still,
And make me current by thy skill.
Verse
4.
O
Manington thy stories show,
Thou cut'st a Horst head off at a blow;
But I confesse I have not the force,
For to cut off the head of a Horse.
Yet I desire this grace to win,
That I may cut off the Horse head of sin,
And leave his body in the dust
Of sinnes high way, and bogges of lust:
Whereby I may take vertues purse,
And live with her for better for worse.
Verse
5.
Farewell
Cheapside, farewell sweet Trade,
Of Goldsmiths all that never shall fade.
Farewell deare fellow-prentices all,
And be you warned by my fall.
Shun Usurers bonds, and Dice, and Drabs,
Avoid them as you would
French fcabs.
Seek not to goe beyond your teacher,
And cut your thongs unto your leather;
So shall you thrive by little and little,
Scape Tyborne, Counters, and the Spittle.
A Song.
1.
LAdyes here I doe present you,
With a dainty dish of fruit,
The first it was a Poplin peare,
'Twas all the fruit the tree did beare;
You need not pare it any whit,
But put it all in at a bit.
And being let a while to lye,
'Twill melt, 'twill melt, twill melt most pleasantly.
2.
The next in order you shall have,
A rich Potata and a brave,
Which being laid unto the fire,
God
Cupid kindels to desire;
For when 'tis baste, with little cost,
'Twill baste it selfe when it is rost;
It needs no Sugar, nor no Spice,
'Twill please a stomach nere so nice,
'Twill make a Maid at midnight cry,
It comes, it comes, it comes, it comes most pleasantly.
3.
The next by lot as doth befall,
Is two handfuls of Roundsefalls;
Which
Priamus the garden God
Made
Venus eate within the God:
You must not prune too much at first,
For if you doe, teares out will burst,
And being let a while to lye,
'Twill drop, 'twill drop, 'twill drop, 'twill drop most prettily.
4.
The best of things in all the land,
You shall have
Mars his onely wand,
Protecting of that pretty flower,
Which comes and goes in halfe an houre;
The flowers of Vertue that doe grow,
Because they'l please all women so:
But when
Mars drawes back his wand,
It lyes it lyes, it lyes, and cries, and cannot stand.
Ʋpon the burning of a Petty School.
WHat heat of learning kindled your desire
You cursed sons to set your house on fire?
What love of honour in your brests did turn
Those sparks of fury into flames to burn
Or was't some higher cause? were the hot gods
Phoebus &
Vulcan cold friends now at ods?
What er'e the Cause was, surely ill was th' intent
When all the Muses justly may lament;
But above all for names sake
Polyhymy
Bewails the downfal of that learned Chimny,
Where you might see without or wit or sense
Lay the sad ashes of an Accidence.
What numbers here of Nowns to wrack did go,
As
Domus, Liber, and as many moe,
In woful case, no sexe the flames did spare
Each gender in this losse had common share;
There might you see the Ruful declinations
Of 15 Pronouns and 4 Conjugations.
Some Gerunds Die, but some Do overcome, strook dumb.
And some with heat and smoak are quite
Supines lay gasping upwards void of fences,
The moods were mad to see imperfect tences,
Adverbs of place threw down their lofty stories
As
ubi, ibi, illic, intus, foris.
Conjugations to disjoyn as you would wonder
Nor coupling scarce but it was burnt asunder
The Praepositions know not where to be,
Each Interjection cry'd Heu I woe is me.
For the due joyning of the things again
A Neighbour call'd
qui mihi comes amain;
Else sure the fire had into flames so turnd
Gods, Men Months, Rivers, Winds, and all had burn'd.
Now'gan the flames to
Heteroclites to number
And poor
supellex lost his plural number,
Of verbs scarce had escaped one of twenty.
Had there not been by chance
As in presenti.
T. R.
Ʋpon the fall of Wisbech Bridge.
HElpe helpe you undertakers all
Whose purses are the stronger;
Our bridge the falling-sicknesse hath
For it can stand no longer.
And come you cruel Watermen
And lend your help to'th town.
'Its you I doubt that shot the bridge;
And so have thrown it down.
What was the cause of this mischance?
There is a great confusion;
I saw by the water that he was
Of a Crazy constitution
Some say the enlarging of the streames
Strook up the bridges heels
It was to much strong water sure
That made him drunk and reale.
And some do say, he fell because
His feet had no good landing
I rather think the block head fell
For want of understanding
Although our Country suffer losse
And at this downfal grudges
It was the upstart-sluce that put
Our aged bridge to's Crutches.
The Lords will have it built again
Much longer then the other;
Introth I think it will be long
Ere we have such another.
But who shall build this stately peice
There's no man can suppose;
The Dutch man doubts the Lords do mean
To make a bridge of's noses.
And some doe say that
Master Day
Will give to it ten pound,
But he reply'd (by
[...]) they lyed,
He had rather see them drown'd.
But let not
Wisbech be dismaid,
Nor at this losse complain;
For though our bridge a Bankrupt be
We'll set him up Again.
T. R.
Ʋpon the fall of the Miter in Cambridge.
LAment Lament you schollers all,
Each wear his blackest gowne;
The Miter that upheld your wits,
Is now it selfe fallen down.
The dismal fire on London bridge
Can move no heart of mine.
For that but ore the water stood
But this stood ore the Wine.
It needs must melt each Chirstians heart
That this sad newes but hears,
To see how the poor hogs heads wept
Good Sack and Claret teares.
The zealous students of that place
Change of Religion fear,
That this mischance may soon bring in
The Heresie of Beer.
Vnhappy Miter, I would know
The cause of thy sad hap;
Was it for making leggs to low
To
Pembrokes Cardinals cap?
Then know thy self, & cringe no more,
Since Popery went down
That cap should vaile to thee, for now
The Miter's next the Crown.
Or was't because our company
Did not frequent the Cell
As we were wont, to drown these cares,
Thou fox'd thy self and fell?
No sure the Devil was adry
And caus'd this fatal blow
Twas he that made this Celler sink
That he might drink below;
And some do say the Devil did it
Cause he would drink up all,
I rather think the Pope was drunk
And let his Miter fall.
Poor Commoners to your great disgrace
Your want of skill acknowledge
To let a Tavern fall that stood
Oth walls of your own Colledge.
Rose now withers, Falcon moults,
White
Sam enjoyes his wishes
The Dolphin now must cast his Crown,
Wine was not made for fishes.
This sign a Tavern best becomes,
To shew who loves it best.
The Miter is the onely signe,
For 'tis the Schollers Crest,
Thou
Sam drink Sack and cheer thy selfe
Be not dismai'd at all
For we will drink it up again
Though we do catch the fall,
Weel be thy workmen day and night
In spite of Bug bear Proctors
We drank like Freshmen all before,
But now wee'll drink like Doctors.
T. R.
A match at Cock-fighting.
GOe you same Gallants, you that have the name,
And would accounted be cocks of the game
That have brave spurs to shew for't and can crow,
And count al dunghil breed that cannot shew vice
Such painted plumes as yours, that think no
Coy cock-like lust to tread your cockatrice; you be,
Though Peacocks Woodkocks Weathercoks
If y'aer no fighting cocks y'are not for me.
I of two feathered combatants will write;
He that to'th life means to express their fight,
Must make his Ink their blood which they did spill,
And from his dying wings borrow his quill.
No sooner was the doubtful people set,
The match's made and all that would had bet;
But straight the skilful Judges of the play
Bring forth their sharpe-heeld warriours, and they
Were both in linnen bags, as if 'twas meet,
Before their day to have had their winding sheet.
With that 'ith pitt they're put, and when they were,
Both on their feet the Norfolke Chantdecleer
Looks stoutly on his ne're before seen foe,
And like a challenger begins to crow,
And shake his wings, as that he did display
His warlike colours, which were black and gray;
Meane while the wairy
Wisbitch walks and breaths,
His active body and in fury wreathes
His comely crest, and often looking down
He whets his angry beake upon the ground.
With that they meet, not like that coward breed
Of
Esope; these can better fight then feed.
They scorne the dunghil, tis their onely prize
To dig for Pearls in each others eyes;
They fought so long that it was hard to know,
To'th skilful whether they did fight or no;
Had not the blood which died the fatal floor,
Borne witnesse of it, yet they fight the more,
As that each wound were but a spur to prick
Their fury forward, lightning not more quick
Nor red then were their eyes; tis hard to know,
Whether it was blood or anger made them so.
And sure they had been out, had they not stood
More safe by being fenced in with blood:
But still they fight; But now alas at length,
Although their courage be full
[...]yirde, their strength
And blood began to Ebbe, you that have seen
A water combate on the Sea between
Two angry boyling billowes, how
They martch and meet, and dash their curled brow,
Swelling like graves, as though they did intend
To intombe each other ere the quarrel end:
But when the wind is down, and blustring weather,
They are made friends, and sweetly run together.
Me thinks these Champions such, their wind grown low,
And they which leapt even now, now scarce can goe.
Their wings which lately at each blow they clapt,
As if they did applaud themselvs, they flap;
And having lost the advantage of the heele,
Drunk with each others blood, they onely reele;
From both their eyes such drops of blood did fall,
As if they wept them for their funeral:
And yet they faine would fight, they come so neer,
As if they meant into each others eare,
To whisper death, & when they cannot rise,
They lie and look blowes into each others eyes:
But now the Tragick part after the fight,
When Norfolke Cock had got the best of it,
And Wisbitch lay a dying, so that none
Though sober but might venter seven to one
Consuming like a dying Taper all
His force, as meaning with that blow to fall,
He struggles up, and having taken winde,
Venters a blow and strickes the other blind.
And now poor Norfolke having lost his eyes,
Fights onely guided by Antipathies;
With him (alas) the Proverbe holds too true,
The blows his eyes were sure his heart must rue:
At length by chance, he stumbling on his foe,
Not having any strength to deale a blow;
He falls upon him with a wounded head,
And made the conquerours wings his feather bed:
Where lying sicke, his friends were very chary
Of him, and fetcht in haste th' Apothecary:
But still in vain, his body doth so blister,
That its not capable of any glister;
Wherefore at last opening his fainting bill,
He call'd a Scrivener, and thus made his will.
Inprimis, let it never be forgot,
My body freely I bequeath toth th' pot,
Decently to be boild, and for it's Tombe,
Let it be buried in some hungry Wombe.
Item Executor I will have none,
But he that on my side laid seven to one:
And like a gentleman that he may live,
To him, and to my heires my combe I give;
Together with my brains, that all may know
That oftentimes his brains do use to crow.
Item its my will those, weaker ones,
Whose wives complain of them, I give my stones.
To him that's dull I do my spurs impart,
And to the Coward I bequeath my heart:
To Ladies that are light, its my will,
My feathers should be given; and for my bill,
I'de give to'a Taylor, but its so short,
That I'm afraid he rather curse me for't.
And to the worthy Doctors, they who meant
To give me a glister, let my rumpe be sent:
Lastly because I feel my life decay,
I yeild, and give to Wisbitch cocke the day.
T. R.
On the praise of fat Men.
LO precious Rules are here made comon,
For health of either man or woman▪
If thou fat mortal faine wouldst be,
With cheeks so plump, for eyes to see:
Know feeding hard and drinking much,
With sleeping long, will make you such.
Cram thou until thou fartst at table,
'Twill make thee fat as jade in the stable.
If thou thy Buttocks would have spread,
Sit long after thou haft well fed;
Twill make the Hanches large to grow,
Through gown or breeches, making show.
If thou thy flesh wilt hold together,
Walk not though it be faire weather;
All exercise forbeare, for that
But wasts and melts away the fat.
You see when Boares for Brawne we feed,
That they're pend up in fligh indeed.
Which maks their fat more firm and hard
Then is the greatest Bacon Lard,
So you the dyning-room may keep
To eat and drink in, shite and sleep.
Your wiser Germans sit at meals
So long till it runs down their heels,
Nor do they think it any scorn;
For what or'flows, their rooms adorn.
In camp you may finde out his tent
From other Nations by the sent;
For there the Pakings up of Rennish,
Disturbs no stomach that is quemish.
To eat and drink, to shit, and spue,
Is custome old, no fashion new.
Your pills and potions are poor things
To those more natural scowerings,
To see a mortal with large pode
Disburden Colon of his load,
Or see one which eat apple pye
Till she hath need to let it fly
Doth shew that all is right within
That sends forth Pudding without skin,
These are the natural conies that shew
The feeding bodies ebbe and flow.
For in the microcosm we
All changes of the great world see,
Let hungry wight forbear a meal
It makes him look like slinked veal;
His belly thinks his throat is cut,
And cramp begins to wring his gut;
He looketh blew under the eyes
And guts do woulfe-like trade that lies
In watry dike in springs beginning,
Then have a care of empty lining;
You never shall answer halfe so much
To fill as he shall that day grutch
To stuffe his chitterling so well
That they no tales of fasting tell.
I heard rich Mortal had a pig
A present sent to him so big
That he to eat it was unwilling.
But strived to sell it for five shilling,
The pig was sent him with the taile,
But in the market that must fail
For there the mortal would not sel it
But in his family would spend it
But bad his man to have a care
To sel't where he might have his share
The body of the pig was sould
But powdring Tub the tail did hold;
The powdri
[...]g Tub which had not seen
So much as rumpe of goose so green
In twice ten yeer (Tubteny did say)
Would well have serv'd late priests to pray,
Such as from Coblers stalls have crept,
And in obedience Sisters kept
Their members all which due are spred
To rub and chafe when they're in bed.
For after exercise in Tub
Their Sisters cause their Priests to rub
That they their teachers might restore
For doctrine given in before.
But leaving brother to expound
Dark place and mystery prefound,
I now intend to bend discourse
To mortal fat as pompred horse.
They commonly that are so fat
No parents are of Witches plot.
Alas they onely do take care
To keep their ribs from being bare,
And that is done by exercise
Of little bones beneath their eyes,
Bones that will trundle a whole mile
While all the body rests the while
Yet we have fools within our Nation
Let strangers pull them out for fashion
Bones unto men of precious use,
That squeeze all fat, all ripes to juyce,
That man that truly loves his belly,
To part with them is loth I tel ye;
He doth as hihly prize those bon
[...]
As Ladies do those precious stones
Which nature made not to adorn her
So much as please her in a corner.
These bones in English have name
Which Monsieurs raised have to fame.
A single one is called a Tooth
From whence Tooth-drawer comes forsooth
But of Tooth drawers Pray know this.
The French the most esteemed is;
He doth as much by touch of finger
As fignres do for figure flingers.
But all the learned know that they
Do but pretend to what they say.
Your French Tooth drawer if you observe
Looks as if he himself did sterve
To fat his horse, which drew as much
As Mounsiers selfe doth by the touch;
For Mounsiers horse whose hoofes are horns
While he cures Teeth the Jade cures Cornes.
I see a Porter who stood by
To see Mounsier draw's mouth awry
And pull from well ground. Butchers gum
A hollow Tooth bigger then's thumb;
A Tooth Ile warrant in time hath ground
Of fly blown beefe, many a pound;
A Tooth had some well minded Glutton
But such a phang he'd tue the mutton;
Porter that stood this sight to see
Had come on too most certainly,
The Mounsiers horse as if jade knew
The malady which on toe grew,
Removed his foot, and set it down
Upon the toe of gazing clown;
Porter at tread of horse did squeak,
But jade had gin his corne a tweak.
Just as the Butchers money paid,
The Porters cure of corne was made;
He needs must be rid of his corne,
For toe from his foot was torne.
When Porter begins to complain,
Mounsier to spur his horse was faine,
So rides away, sans all remorse,
Bidding the Porter kisse his arse.
Porter was lame, and could not follow,
But aloud begins to hollow;
But we leave Porter for to howle,
Till we returne to our fat soul;
For this is quite against profession
Of mine to make so large digression.
But now, for rules before we eat,
And how to chuse right battning meat,
For spoon-meat, barly-broth and jelly,
Very good is for the belly.
For mornings draught your north down-ale
Will make you oylely as a Whale;
But he that will not out flesh wit
Must at the good Cannary sit;
For tis a saying very fine
Give me the fat mans wit in Wine:
For he's as merry as wean'ling Pig
That to the Hoggs-trough dances Jig.
Your beefe, your pork, your veal, your mutton
So it be good as knife ere cut on;
Your pigs, your capons, turkies, conies,
Your feeding wight thinks worth his monies;
But he whose longings t
[...] grow thicker,
Must mingle with good meat good lquor:
Your Brawn washt down with Muskadine,
Will make your cheekes look plump & fine;
If you would have a double Chin
Drinke no small beer, for thats too thin:
For he that means to feed his Chops high,
Apt is to fall into Dropsie.
Therefore your high rich wines are fit
T' augment the flesh and help the wit.
'Twill make the Buttocks firme as brawn,
And Skin as pure white as Lawne.
Turn hanches up with Ladie fine,
And thy fat arse shall hers out shine.
Feeding and drinking, smooths the skin,
And makes the plump one moist within.
Who feeds at Vespers and at Mattins
Their skins as smooth and white as Sattins
Nere dyed; but weand from the pure Silke
Of the dead worme (whiter) then Milke.
As I of feeding much do treat,
So rules I render after meat.
When thou from a full meale dost rise,
Soummer and Vrine if tho' art wise:
Then pipe of right Varinas take,
For that doth swift disgestion make.
Then seat thy selfe in a great Chaire,
And thing call'd ratling doe forbeare;
So shall you fall into sweet nap,
Shall ease the burden of your lap:
That you no sooner shall awake,
But you another Meale may take;
Or have at least when you doe rise
Passage for dung between your thighs.
Another precious rule scarce thought on
By no meanes here must be forgotten;
All Vermine which in bed doth creep,
From thighs and privy members keep;
For they are creatures breake the reft,
And make men sleepe when they should feast;
Leaving untoucht a wholesome cony,
Which sweeter is to man then money.
Take woman fat, with a black hair,
With colour red, and skin thats faire;
And turne her up, and you shall see
Such a strong contrarity,
Of her white thigh and curled black,
That bordereth about her knack
Shall please the skilful eye to see
Of hues, such rare variety;
For there is black, and blew, and white,
Ordained for young mans delight.
I could speak more in praise of these
Strong harbours for fat crabs and fleas;
But I must turne and winde my story
To those by feeding gain their glory.
And now should I all wilde fowle name,
That adde to lusty. Manchers frame;
I dazle should the readers eyes
To view the name of fowle that fly:
I will not write of Herne or Bitterne
Whose claw transends goose-quill or sittern;
Nor of the partridge, nor the pheasant,
Meat scarcely known to chops of peasant;
Nor of the woodcock nor the widgen,
Nor the often billing pigeon.
Nor of the larke, nor the Cock-sparrow
Whose mettle melts away his marrow.
I shall want roome to write of fish,
Which often is the fat mans dish;
Of which the sturgeon and the oyster
That moveth holy Nun in Cloyster,
And maketh ofttimes aged Fryar
A litle of that same desire.
Oysters are of strong operation,
Known to both Sexes of our Nation;
They're fishes of such rare perfection,
That they in flesh make an erection;
And gives to mouthes wants teeth such strength
That they le devour a whole yards length;
Such is keene appetite of nick,
Although it be a handful thick.
I must not dwell on watry theame,
For feare I'm thought too full of phlegme:
But now I something have to say,
Of food that helps natures decay;
Of which the food springs from the earth
Sutes best to those of humane birth.
In Indies Easterne occident,
Theirs fruits that give the taste content.
Some that have travalled speak of Planton,
It makes men lusty, women wanton:
But I believe our English sherrit
To man or woman adds more spirit.
But this is clearely my opinion,
There breeds more sperme of leek and onion;
Some windy roots we have that swell
The belly much, helps nere a dell
To procreation, but they
We meane to east out of our way:
Of which the turnip and the carot
Will make some speake like Jay or Parrot.
It was the judgement of wise
Cato,
That Parsnip did transend Potato;
He swears that Parsnip more doth merit
Then the Aringo or the Skerit:
And yet the Aringo we doe see
Our Ladies much perpetually,
Which out of fellow-feeling they,
Doe to resist, and to obey.
Johannes de temboribus,
Who liv'd as long as three of us;
His dyet much was on the Parsnip,
And he did love to give white arsnip:
In commendations of that root,
Said it made him ofttimes goe tot.
A Modern writer, to the glory
Of this brave root tells this true story;
Which if our Ladyes will not eat,
Will serve to doe another feat.
The story was of a swart Spanyard
Who seldome had a pendent whinyard;
But every night did claper-claw
His wife, that she was almost raw;
She was so sore and full of paine,
That she was fore'st for to complaine.
The learned Judges of that Land
Desird to take each thing in hand:
But when the Judges understood,
The matter was of flesh and blood;
They for the learned Doctors call,
Who straight appear'd in place call'd Hall:
Woman that brought her husband thither,
And was sore in mouth call'd nether
Did blush to see the man in gowne,
Fearing the taile would through the town;
Which shortly afterwards it did,
For which the woman oft was chid.
The Doctors gravely, and in quiet,
Askt him of his usual dyet:
He told them Parsnips was the meat
Which he most usually did eat;
By which conjectur'd tis by all,
No root is more spermatical.
But now to ease his sore wives paine,
A month these roots he must refraine;
Which willingly my stout Don did,
And changing food, lay still in bed:
But she before the month had end
Presented Parsnips to her friend;
And then he sell to wonted worke
As feirce as a broad shouldred Turke.
Since Parsnip's such a bathing thing
That makes both man and woman cling,
And stick as fast to one another
As glued boards, why then plump brother
Eschew not this so lusty food,
Which both for flesh and pleasure's good.
Some slight the valour of the fat,
And say they're good for nought but chat:
But I a story will unfold
Shall speak them hardy, stout, and bold.
Fat mortal into Market comes,
And spyed fat Eles would oyle his gumes:
Then straight he hath a longing wish,
To have those fat Eles in his dish.
So to the greezy wife that sold um,
And on her short fat knees did hold um:
He askt the price with greedy sense,
She gripple wench said eighteen pence;
He in derision offered three,
So quarrel tween them grew to be.
The peremtory jade did raile,
Her words did bruise like blows of flaile;
But Potecary having mettle
Removed her arse from off the settle:
And made the whore that sold the Ele
The waite of hand on bare arse feele;
For he in Market call'd Cheapside,
Smote her blind face, sans nose mouth-wide
Belong'd to those unwashed cheekes
Where Gardner might have planted leekes:
But one thing more vext Pothecary
To see the fish-wives arse so hairy.
But having thus his businesse done
Set down, the scold away did run:
She to revenge this foule disgrace,
Runs scolding after him apace;
Poor man afrighted with the din,
Beshit himselfe for feare of Queane.
The lane was narrow where he went,
He stunk like Alderman in Tent;
The jade which seldome us'd to smel
But what from her own bunghole fell;
Left off the chace, it was so strong,
And so returned with the wrong.
And so I leave her to the scorne
Of those at Bilingsgate, duckt each morne;
This for Land-service, which doth show
Fat men their teeth for valour owe.
Now for their Sea, of which Ile speake,
What shall not shew their valour weake;
As horses in storme a Ship doth poise,
By his resisting waves that rise;
Let no fond man the truth deride,
For horse doth make to th' rising side:
So fat mans bunghole being open,
keeps say lors all from being a slopen.
He stench abundant forth doth send,
Making each boy stand to ropes end;
By which we finde it requisite
Fat men aboard in storme doe shite.
He that at sun lets out a peck
Is a prime man to scoure a deck:
Now foryyour female valour I
Some rare examples shall descry.
Let us look ore the water there,
Where guts are carried to the Beare:
I meane that London spoiling burrough,
Which you to Kent must ride clean thorough
Those that so treacherously let in
Such mortals as make wealth a sin;
Which for their service late so rare,
Shall have an asse for their new Maior;
But for the Masters of their state
In this discourse, Ile not relate:
The wenches with broad haunches I
Intend in this place to descry;
Such whose large podes doe roar as Loude
As wind doth in a tall Ships shroud;
There blasts are such as you with wonder,
If not beheld, would sweare were thunder.
But when they raine and blow together,
You never heard such stormy weather;
Such as will fright the wondring sense,
And to the Nasus give offence.
For like the touchhole of a gun,
The sents persumed from the sun:
This for the virtue; now the trade
Of these sweet wives, so roundly made;
Your neat panch clenser is a woman
That spreadeth in the haunch most common.
Your meat panch cleanser is Tripe-boyler,
Which trade is a great finger-foyler.
But these large wives with hubergums,
Theie tongus with railing bruise their gums;
And bones of armes in skin do rattle,
When with their wenches they have battle.
I could more instances recite,
Of womens valour when they fight,
But now I mean to leave the theame,
Of choler mixt with dury fleame.
Repeating something of fat squire,
who alwaies shites when hee's in ire.
The Alderman of our wise Ward,
Fat as a Bear, or the Bearward,
which if you name but the word fight
Immediately it makes him shite.
Let any man discharge a gun
And he as soon discharge's tun.
It is his naturall love to fighting,
Makes him so prone & apt to shiting.
Not altogether of their spleen,
For all their choller is soon keen.
Their loves do more abound then spite,
And they do shew it when they shite.
Fat man and wife together went,
To cleanse each others fundament.
For so wel grown was either belly,
They could not do't themselves, I tell ye.
This
I dare boldly say, sans swiving,
Shitten come shites is love beginning.
This further know, fat folkes doe scummer,
As much as Cows do give in summer.
And that must be a fruitfull taile,
That at one dunging fils a payle.
Nor is't amisse that I recite
The parley that they did use at shite.
Dialogue.
Kind words are worth a world of money.
Qu. Dost thou pisse love?
Ans. No,
I shit hony.
Such questions would the good man aske,
When wife was troubled with the lask,
For she when laskish shit so thin,
It might have serv'd to shave a chin,
Some think it needfull to be sed
Of love they used to shew in bed,
Large panches did so shorten arme,
Own privie members could not vvarm.
There sausige plumped fingers ends
But commonly like loving friends.
In Winter morning you might catch
Her hand on Cod, he finging Notch.
Thus they do keep their fingers warm
Doing to neither any harm.
Love in all ages was commended,
And by Monarchy defended.
Fat people were the landed theams
Of
Julius Caesar, and King
James.
They keep their minds in such pure quiet,
Which battens them as much as diet.
And now I leave the fat folks friends,
Which Musick maketh at both ends.
For pode and throat they both extend,
To make a sweet harmonious end.
Jeane easie got her a Nag, and a Sledge to the [Page 92]Privyhouse for to slide a, The hole was beshit that she could not sit, but did cack as she lay on her side a; She was not wind, for she sent forth a sound did stretch her fundament wide a.
On the print of a Ladies foot, cut on the Leades of Kings Colledge Chappel, where before she had fallen.
HEre once my Princesse, when we first did meet,
Made proud the leades, and let them kisse her feet.
They not contented with a part so small,
Gave her a slip, and with that slip a fall;
So did they get the grace to kisse her hand
A better part then that whereon we stand.
Bold sawcy leades (that as proud coblers do)
Durst passe their bounds and touch above the sho;
But why do I the leads ambition blame?
Had I been they, I should have done the same;
Onely I would have melted at the meeting,
And not have hurt her with so hard a greeting.
But O, what name so bad by which to call,
Her servants negligence that let her fall;
Yet this excuse he hath, 'twas rainy weather,
And this his comfort, they fell both together;
Such falls before advancement Ide prefer,
And wish to fall again, so twere with her.
But see her triumph where she fell before,
Her foot stands now engrav'd & slips no more
The conquerd leads in penance have received
The print of that whose trust it once deceived
Ann wounded bears to all posterity
The punishment of its disloyalty:
A just requital, onely twill be said,
So rare a gemme should not be set in lead.
To a Lady commanding him to write a defiance to Love.
DO I want torture then that I
Loves awful power must thus defie?
Or in old stories do you finde,
That Love is deafe as well as blinde;
Or else doe you resolve from hence
To nonplus my obedience?
Well then your own command doth move
Me to blaspheme your selfe and love.
The Defiance.
Once so foolish too was I,
To doat on natures vanity;
That triffle Woman which they say,
She made to passe the time away,
When she had nothing else to doe;
(And faith 'tis very likely too)
O! I had a tedious fit
Of love methinkes I feele it yet.
Ile sweare it held me halfe an hour,
but
Cupid now, I scorne thy power.
Shew me in one Ladies eye
The strength of thy Artillery:
Shew me a cheeke where may be seen
Thy sprightly wanton Magazene,
Shew me a lip that's dyed in graine
With the hearts blood of those 't'as slaine;
Yet I have vowed Ile never dye
For that lip, or cheeke, or ey.
Shew me a neck, whose milky way,
View splendor with the King of day:
Shew me a breast darts flames, although
It selfe doth seeme compos'd of snow:
Shew me a belly so divine,
Thou though a god, wouldst make it thine;
Yet
Cupid, I the same dare tell ye,
For all this necke, or breast or belly.
Shew me a thigh whose softnesse can,
And whitnesse baffle
Ledas Swan:
Shew me a leg which would invite
The strictest Hermite to delight;
Shew me a foot whose pretty shape
[...] commit a ra
[...]e:
Yet I have voy'd He never dye,
For that foot, or leg or thigh.
To a Lady on a fall, in which she had almost discovered more then all the VVorld besides could shew.
MAdam, pardon me, whilst I
Repeat my happy misery,
How the self same thing did cloy
With excessive griefe and joy.
How cruel kind fate did me bless
With fortunate unhappiness.
A wonder sure before unheard,
The same thing should be wisht and feard.
Who would not fear to see that fall?
Who would not wish there to see all?
Twas such a sight, thus who but sees
Doth blaspheme thee with his eyes.
Twas such a sight that Hell defin'd,
May truly be said to be blind.
Cruel hands that were imployd,
In a sin worse then a paracide.
To keep that hid, which to have seen
The total sum of blisse had been.
This in my passion then I swore
Those hands ile never kisse no more.
This anger was true madnesse, I
Had thus reveng'd your injury
Upon my self, so I had been
tortur'd for what I thought your sin.
You'd use them better for to save
Your self, then for to wound your slave.
Since to hurt your selfe, to me
Was the height of injury.
But envy sure would never rest
In so innocent a breast.
Twas courtesie made you so unkind,
Lest those Letters should strike me blind
Which your pure limbs unvaild display,
(Beams which disgrace the Prince of day.)
You thus in pitty cheat my sight,
And hide the dangerous delight.
May he be blind that dos not prize
Such a sight above his eyes.
You might have spar'd your pains to heare,
Twas a very needlesse care,
(When the steed's stollen you shut the dore,
Your eyes had struck me blind before.
On a Knife that cut a Ladies finger.
THe weapon
Salve (as some they say have found
At distance heals, just so this knife doth wound;
For all that gash, I felt the greatest smart,
Cutting your hand, you cut my heart.
Then let me search my gall that I may see,
What curses I can muster up for thee.
Mayst thou be alwayes more abhor'd by us,
Than the keene Knife of
Atropus;
To imploy thee may the basest beggar scorne,
Unlesse to paire his nailes or cut his corne:
Mayest thou be lost till thou art rusty, then
By some mechanick Butcher found agen;
And by him kept, onely for this intent,
To rip up guts, and let out excrement:
But why to curse thee do I keep this stir?
Briefly, mayest thou ne're more be us'd by Her.
A Description of the miseries of a moneylesse Pocket.
BRing me
Raviliac who does defie
All torments, with such gallant constancy;
And onely with one sudden oh complaines,
When they pour scalding oyl into his veines;
Let his stout heart but feele my pangs alone,
An empty purse Ile warrant him will make him groane.
Bring me a Stoick that sayes flat and plaine,
A wise man knows not so much thing as pain;
Let me alone to make him change his note,
And sweare a cut-purse worse then a cutthroat.
The pangs my Mother did with me indure,
Were not so bad, as to want money sure,
I'de wish, were I my enemy to nurse,
May his associate be an empty purse:
Nor would I any greater crosses crave
For him, that that he may not crosses have;
Then to see him I might justly hope,
Knight of the noble order of the rope.
For you will finde amongst that famous crue
That make their wills at Hide Parke corner few,
If you examine, but the reason why
'Twas cause they wanted money they'l reply:
Nay I have tasted miseries far worse,
The constant judgements of an empty purse.
For if I come into a Taverne I,
Scarce from the Drawer get a by and by;
To trust one quart I cannot work on
Will,
Though I'de pawne for it all
Parnassus hill;
I offer'd too my horse, but he swore thus,
I will not trust one pint of Pegasus:
From thence to
Clavels where I stand at door
And softly askt
Sue, hast thou ere a whore?
You speak sayes she as if you had no money,
Then with a pox Ile help you to a cunny.
If I by chance espye some old Comrade,
He straight avoides me, as if
I had the plague;
And cause
I ha'nt a token with such care,
Shuns me as if
I full of tokens were.
Now say my rimes are dull, & you'l say true;
And are not you as dull to read them too?
You might conclude before you read a bit,
That he who money wants, must needs want wit.
On a London Taylor who spoiled a Commencement Gowne in the making.
HOw is't nine Taylors make a man up when?
One Taylor is enough to mar nine men;
And more of women, for their large Vocation
Acknowledgeth no bounds or limitation:
Equal to Natures priviledge, which showes
Variety in our bodies, they in cloathes:
Nay more, a Badgers gate, a flaw or crack
In any member, or a Lute-case back;
Takes not so much from man, nor can deface him,
So as an ill cut Garment can disgrace him.
In the deep censuring judgements of gay Mutes,
Who set upon the life and death of suites;
If this be true, thou neither he nor she,
In what manner hast thou injur'd me
In spoiling of my Gowne? the neck too wide,
Too long before, and then too short o'th side;
My sleeves too small to laugh in; then so high
The wings start up as if they meant to flye:
Thus to be handled, thus be thum'd,
It makes my Velvet fret, though never gumd.
But was my Gown cut in this uncouth guise?
And my Commencement Gown when thousand eyes
Were brought to gaze, and I to walk mongst those,
Whose greatest part of braine lies in their cloathes:
Tay lour, I will not damne or curse thee for't;
Thou dost fare the better, but I wish a sort
Of debtors faile that thou full justly harm'd,
As thou sit'ft now crosse leg'd mai'st walke crosse arm'd.
Many cross stitches mayest thou make, & meet
Some Ruffians still to crosse thee in the street:
Mayest thou still see thy selfe when thou shalt look,
In each thing cross'd but in thy credit Book.
And yet, if in sad silence of the night,
Thou shalt be hunted by a merry spright;
I pray that drawing neer thee he may finde,
Crosses each part before but none behinde.
Let Courtiers point a day, and coming then,
Point thee another day to come agen;
Let fashions never change, let garments wear,
As long as
Coriats shoes, or men goe beare;
As in their better state and women too,
As some suppose, they are about to doe.
I cannot wish thee mischief in the wars,
For thou art skild in needle scares;
Yet let thine own goose presse thee till thou faint,
And though I never mean thou shouldst be Saint;
Let men invoke thy name, though then alone,
When as there knife is strugling with a bone;
Farewel, and when thou bringst thy long bill down,
Ile make't as short as thou hast made my Gowne.
On a Bile.
LEt others sing of heads and some of cups,
Of
Mars, and
Venus, and her after claps;
I have a subject that gives me more matter,
Than you,
I, or both, know how to utter.
It is a Bill, what Epithite shall
I
finde for to call so dull a creature by?
Shall
I proclame thee blockhead? and yet call
Thee so,
I can't, thou hast no head at all.
Couldst thou but get a head, and ripen faster,
I would not break thy head, but ad a plaister:
Or shall
I call thee coward, 'cause
I finde
Thee alwayes in one place, and still behind?
Well, since thou art a coward, prethee play,
The cowards part, and quickly run away:
Or shall
I call thee ungrateful, vexing mee,
That brought thee up, and breeding gave to thee?
Yet prethee be not angry O my Bile,
Thou look'st to have bin praised al this while,
Shall
I commend thee then? and so
I will,
Commend thee to the Surgeon and his skill.
Reader forbeare to frown or carpe at least,
For nought but corruption here doth rest:
Thus do
I ease my paines, and when my bile
Begins to rage, then
I oppose my style;
Thus did that Roman
Possidonus stout,
And
Scaliger did thus out brave the gout:
To a Gentlewoman from her formerly betrothed, but diserted servant, he being invited to the celebration of her Nuptials.
WHy faire vow-breaker, hath thy sin thought fit,
I be the curst example of thy wit,
As well as scorne? Bad woman, did not
I
Deserve as much as quiet misery?
Be wise, and trouble not my suffering fit,
For every sin
I have repentance yet,
Except for loving thee, doe not thou presse
My easie madnesse to a wretchednesse;
So high as that, lest
I be driven so,
As far from heaven as thou art, which
I know
Is not thine aime, for thou hast sinned to be,
In place as in affection, far from mee?
Was
I thy friend or kinsman, had
I ought?
What was familiar with the saving thought,
A dreame, some letters too that scattered lie,
Neglected records of my misery;
I know no ich my silent sorrow moves,
To beg a Bridal-kisse or paire of Gloves:
Those are the lighter duties which they seek,
Whose sleeps are sound, and constant as the week
Is in her course, and never felt the chance
Of love amisse, but in a dreame or trance,
And wak'd with gladness; tis not so with me,
My dayes and nights are twins in misery.
Invite me first to catch the plague, wish me to be
A witnesse to my Mothers infamy;
Bespeak me to besham'd, cause me to bring
My selfe an Eunuch to a Gossiping.
Upon record; how desperate wert thou bent
To invite me to a wedding Complement?
Should
I come there when that the holy man,
With his religious Magick hath begun
To tye thee from me,
I might leape into
A rage, and safely all your lives undoe:
When heaven would be so courteous to disguise,
The blood-shed with the name of sacrifice;
Silent as sorrows lodgings had
I dwelt,
Followed with my despaire and never felt.
Anger except in living, hadst thou bin
Content with my undoing, but that's a sin.
I never shall forgive thee to upbrade,
A wretchednesse which thou thy selfe hast made:
Heaven knows
I suffered, and
I suffered so,
That by me 'twas infallible to know
How passive man is, Fate knew not a curse,
But in thy new content to make it worse;
And that thou gav'st me when
I so low was brought,
That
I knew nought but thee, and then
I thought,
And counted sighs and teares, as if to scan
The Aire and Water which composeth man;
Diseased
I was, diseased, past thine own cure,
Yet wouldst thou kill what made me to endure:
My patience, strange murderesse would you prove,
Whether that were as mortal as your love?
Have women such a way as they can give
To men denial, and with love to live?
Why then abhor'd reason tell me why,
Successelesse Lovers doe so quickly die?
And be it so with me; but if a curse
May first be fastend on thee which is worse,
Than thy unwept for vow, breach may it come,
As thy sins heape, may the tedious some,
Of thy great sins stand centinel to keep
Repentance from thy thoughts; reach may the sleep
Be broken as my hopes, bove all may he
Thou chusest husband grow to jealousie;
Then finde it true, and kill thee may the themes,
On which thy thoughts do paraphrase in dreames.
Be my sad wrongs, & when some other shall,
Whom Fate with me hath made Apocriphal
In loving, stories search and instance forth,
To damne his Mistriss for as little worth;
Let thy name meet him, under which let be,
A common place of womens perjury;
May heavens make all this true, and if thou pray
Let God esteeme it as thou didst the pay
Of thy last promise; I have said be free,
This pennance done, my day of destiny
By thee is antidated, but three sighs.
First I must pay admission to the skies,
One for my madnesse to love women so,
That I could think thee true; the next Ile throw,
For wronged Lover, that Ile breath a new;
The last shall beg my curses be made true.
Cupides Holyday.
LAdies whose marble hearts despise
Loves soft impressions, whose chast eyes
Nere shot a glance but might be seene,
Diana and her maidens teeme
Of icy Virgins hence away,
Disturb not our licentious play;
For now It's
Cupids Holyday.
Goe glory in that empty name
Of Virgin, let your idle flame,
Consume it selfe, while we enjoy
Those pleasures which fair
Venus boy
Grants to those whose mingled thighes
Are Trophies of his Victories,
From whence new pleasures still arise.
Those onely are admitted here,
Whose looser thoughts nere knew of care
Of mans embraces, whose faire face
Can give enjoyment such a grace,
As wipes away that hated name
Of lust, and calls their Amorous flame,
A virtue free from feare or shame.
With them weel number kisses till
We pose Arithmetick and fill
Our hearts with pleasures, till it swells
Bey ond those bounds where blushing dwells.
Then will we our selves intombe
In those Joyes which fill the wombe,
Till sleep possesseth
Cupids roome.
At waking no repentance shall,
With our past sweetnesse mingle gall;
Weel kisse again till we restore
Our strength again to venture more:
Then weel renew again our play,
Admitting of no long delay.
Till we end our Holyday.
To his VVhore who askt money of him.
WHat is't that fans my fancies thus?
So coole of late I'm grown,
Methinkes I'm not so rigorous,
How quickly I lie alone.
Nor doth her absence with one sigh bemoan,
Hence doth this chilness seize my back,
This frost my blood benumbe,
When I to my
Corinna spake
To yeild to love, she askt of me a sum,
Would
Cupid I had deafe been or she dumb.
Those glances I ador'd before,
How do I now despise?
Tis money onely makes a Whore,
She's chast that with a thousand lies,
For love, at such a one my members rise.
Let
Jove his
Danais enjoy,
Nor envyed be for me.
If ere
Jane Shore my Mistrisse cloy
It shall be when I'm as old as he,
Till then, ile ne're commit that Simmony.
If your affections pelfe must imp,
Goe get another friend,
My pocket ne're shall be my pimpe;
Nor will
I for your love depend
On dirt, yet no man shall more freely spend;
No no,
I will not rent your bed,
Nor your smock-tenant be;
I will not farme your white and red,
You shall not let your — to me,
I court a Mistrisse, not a Landlady.
Judgement forbids me too (my deare)
To keep thy love in pay,
As hence it plainly doth appear;
Loves a little boy they say,
And who but fools give children mony pray?
Loves nakednesse you do mistake,
And hence proceeds your fin;
Which shewes he will no money take,
He hath no purse to put it in;
Then doe it freely or for me go spin.
On the Souldiers walking in the New Exchange to affront the Ladies.
ILe go no more to the New Exchange
There is no roome at all,
It is so throng'd and crowded by
The gallants of White Hall;
But ile goe to the Old Exchange
Where old things are in fashion,
For now the Kews become the shop
Of this blessed Reformation.
Come my new Courtlers what d'ye lack,
Good consciences if you doe;
Here's long and wide the onely weare,
The straight will trouble you.
You powdersellers here will thrive,
No customers can you lake;
Onely resolve to change the dye,
Your powder must be black;
And with you here, take my advice,
Get Pistols stead of Puffes;
Instead of sweet balls, bullets get,
And gauntlet stead of muffes.
Come my new Courtiers,
&c.
You that are Ribbon sellers too,
Your broken trades may patch,
If you those guegawes can put off
And barter them for match.
You that fine Cabinets do sell,
Your shops and ware may burn,
Her Ladiship hates all those toyes,
A Snapsack serves her turne.
Come my new Courtiers,
&c.
You that sell Bookes
I pitty most,
You are undone
I see't,
Unlesse you will rebellion sell
At a penny by the sheet:
If so, you have a thriving trade,
For Customers goe no further;
For these blood Merchants at deare rates
Engrosse all rape and murther.
Come my new Courtiers,
&c.
Undone, undone Confectioners,
Alas there is no hopes.
Unlesse you will give o're your trads
And set up Sutlers shops.
Your Apricockes, your Ringo roots,
Your Marmalad will not sell;
Get you conserves of bread & cheese.
You'l beare away the Bell.
Come my new Courtiers, what dlye lake
Good Consciences? if you doe,
Here's long and wide the onely weare,
The straite will trouble you.
Another.
WHy should we not laugh and be jolly,
Since all the World is mad?
And lull'd in a dull melancholly;
He that wallows in store
Is still gaping for more,
And that makes him as poor
As the wretch that nere any thing had.
How mad is that damn'd money-monger?
That to purchase to him and his heirs
Growes shriviled with thirst and hunger;
While we that are bonny
Buy Sack with ready money,
And nere trouble the scriveners nor Lawyers.
Those guts that by scraping and toiling,
Do swell their revenues so vast,
Get nothing by all their turmoiling,
But are markes of each Taxe
While they load their own backs
With the heavier packs,
And lie down gall'd and weary at last.
While we that doe traffick in tipple,
Can baffle the Gowne and the Sword,
Whose jawes are so hungry and gripple;
We nere trouble our heads,
With Indentures or Deeds,
And our wills are compos'd in a word.
Our money shall nere indite us,
Nor drag us to Goldsmiths Hall,
No Pirates nor wracks can affright us;
We that have no estates,
Feare no plunder nor rates
We can sleep with open gates,
He that lies on the ground cannot fall.
We laught at those fooles whose endeavours
Do but fit them for Prisons and Fines,
When we that spend all are the savers;
For if Theeves doe breake in
They goe out empty agin,
Nay the plunderers loose their designes.
Then let us not think on to morrow,
But tipple and laugh while we may
To wash from our hearts all sorrow;
Those Cormorants which,
Are troubled with an itch,
To be mighty and rich,
Doe but toile for the wealth which they borrow.
The Maior of our Towne with his ruffe on,
What a pox is he better then we?
He must vale to the men with the buffe on;
Though he Custard may eat,
And such lubbardly meat,
Yet our Sack makes us merrier then he.
The hornes a Song.
BRight
Cynthia scornes alone to weare hornes
Unto her great griefe and shame;
And sweares by the light, and the worlds despite
That men shall weare the same.
The man in the Moon to hear this in a swoun
And quite out of his wits fell;
And feeling his front, quoth he, a pox on't,
My forehead begins to swell.
Away straight he rod, in a lunaticke mood,
And from his Mistriss would run;
And swore in his h
[...]at, though he stood in a sweat
He had rather go live in the sun.
But he was well appeased that it other men pleased
For no man did mutter or mourn;
But without all affright, and a great delight
Did take to themselves the horne.
The Lord he will go, in his woods too & fro,
Pursuing a Doe that is barren;
But while he's in his Parke, another in the dark
May safely go hunt in his warren.
The Citizen clown, in his furr-faced Gowne,
And his dublet faced with Ale;
Talkes short, but drinks thicker, while his wife like his liquor
Leaves working and relish th' stale.
Lo thus she behornes him, & afterward scorns him
Though he coms to be Maior of the rout;
And holds it no fin, to be occupied within,
Whiles her husband is bufied without.
The Physitian will ride, to his patient that dy'd
Of no sicknesse but that did come;
But whilst abroad he doth kill, with portion &
[...]ill
His wife takes a glister at home.
The Lawyer to succour him with parchment and buc
[...]m
To London the next terme will ride;
To open his case, in his adversaries face,
While his wife to his friend doth the like.
Seven miles too an fro, the professor will go
To heare a sanctifi'd brother;
But while his zeal burnes, his wife she up turns
The whites of her eyes to another.
The Merchant he runs, o're Seas with his guns
His Mariners and his Mates;
But whilst he doth please himself on the seas,
Another may ride in his straights.
The Souldier will go like a man too and fro,
With a full resolution to fight;
While his wife with her friend, in her wanton arms pend
Doth make a boone boy before night.
And although that he be well arm'd
cap ape
He must yeild to a naked boyes scorne;
Or instead of bright Steel, or Iron on his heel
Be content with a Helmet of hor
[...]
Thus each their wives love still, though they do prove
Them to be false in their own sight;
But indeed you do well, the horne (you can tell)
Was never a friend to the light.
A Beggar got a baliff,
A baliff got a yeoman,
A yeoman got a prentise,
A pretise got a freeman.
A freeman got a master,
And he begot a Tease;
And so become a Gentleman
Then a Justice of Peace.
This Justice got a daughter,
And she is come to light,
She stept to the Court
And there she got a Knight.
A Knight got a Lord,
A Lord an Earle begot,
An Earle got a Duke,
This Duke he was a Scot.
This Duke a Prince begot,
A Prince of royal hope,
He begot the Emperour,
T
[...] Emperour got the Pope.
The Pope got a bastard,
He was a noble sparke,
He lay with a Nun, and so begot a Clark:
A clark got a sexston,
A sexston got a viccar,
A viccar got a parson,
A parson got a viccar.
And they were all made prebends,
And so they got a Deane,
A deane got a Bishop,
A Bishop got a queane.
A queane got five shillings,
Five shillings got a smock,
That got a scotch prick,
And there he got a pock.
A Merchant got the pock,
And set it in a Ring,
And gave it to a Lady,
That laid it to her thing.
That gave it to her page,
That gave it to his master,
That sent for the Surgeon,
And laid to it a plaister.
The plaister was too hot,
It bred to him much paine,
A nach was in his —
And so this man —
To his Mistrisse denying him to lie with her.
HAte me deare soule, and say no more you love,
If I must onely know what is above;
To kisse your lips & hands, these be but toys,
And torments to a Lover, and not joyes.
I hate the wanton folly of a kisse,
If not a passage to a further blisse;
Men do seeke Mines in women, and if so,
You must give leave to them to dig below:
The barren face of earth, since natures arts,
Hath hid such treasures in the lower parts;
Why you so coy? you'ld faine be married
Before that you would lose your maidenhead;
Then may I claime it as my right and due,
The Law, doth give it me; it is not you.
If you would have your kindnesse to be shone
Bestow it freely while it is your own.
Ʋpon a Christmas Dinner in a Prison.
HOld hoopes and hinges, burst not I beseech
Your ribs with laughing, at my hungry speech;
Hold fast, be sure with both your hands for feare
Your sides should burst and spoile your hungry cheere.
Listen you Plum-broth Bolchins to the fate,
Of a distressed prisoner, you that sate
And lade your gorgeous mawes with stately chines,
And lusty gamones, while poor virtue pines;
Feeding on nothing but thin contemplation
And barren thoughts; pitty the sad relation
Of the cold feast I kept on Christmas last,
More justly may I call't a solemne fast:
When all your mouths in an united motion
At meat, walk'd faster then at your devotion
Of morning prayers; I unthought of lay
In a darke sullen Chamber where the day
Seem'd but a cleer night; nor could I get,
To satisfie poor nature one small bit.
It would have turn'd the stomack of a cook,
With griefe, to see how piteous I did look.
The little animals did skip and trice
About my musty Cell, yelped mice;
Alas thought they, will no one us befriend,
So much as with a Christ mas Candles end:
Well fare the Chandlers wife, & may she bear
Each year a Chub, we pray thee nature where
The Midwife leapes to see about the house,
A Groaning-Cheese delivered of a mouse:
These in my Conscience if they could have spake,
Had sung the lamentations for my sake,
Though I deserv'd no love; for, for my part,
I could have eaten them with all my heart.
I wish'd my selfe a prisoner in the Tower,
For its alowance sake for halfe an hour;
A Judges tongue, sopt in his greasy hand,
'Had been the choicest morsel in the Land.
The picking of his teeth too, had been rare;
But that so often lick'd with lyes they are
A tender Courtier, though scarce sound, withal
I could have swallowed up cloaths legs & all;
But for a fear, grant pumpt & storme & wind
This roguish bit i'de eat, and had combinde
His carcasle still; & swallowed whole the evil,
Sending his soule the back-way to the devil:
I do believe (such was my hungers force)
I could have eaten my L. Maiors great horse.
Thus well nigh famish'd with conceit I lay,
Sriving to sleep, and so forget the day;
But I no sooner halfe asleep could be,
But straight my entrails crok'd, & wakend me:
Silence quoth I, you chimes of Christmasnoon,
And be content to fast with me till soone;
It may be we shall sup, if not ile fill
My belly with a dreame, good guts be still;
But fortune unexpected to prevent
Despaire, aforded me a limbe of Lent:
Sure she had some strang reason in preferring
Before all meats, a reverent red Hering.
I'm loath to tell thee plainely what it was,
For fear your mouth should water as you pass
And wrong this harmelesse paper by its side,
Lay a neglected crust forth roughly dry'd;
That it had been sometime mistook by one,
That rub'd his bootes with't for a pumystone:
Hard fare, be witnesse heaven, and my jawes
That ak'd, and bled, most freely through the flawes;
The crust had made upon my tender gumes,
It scowr'd, I thought 'twas sand, not white bread crumes:
This if you will beleeve a virtuous sinner,
Was my best fare, for my last Christmas diner:
I wish, not having known the like before,
I may fare better next, or nere know more;
Sir since my muse can make no better shift,
My Christmas dinner be your next years gift.
Song.
I Prethee sweet heart grant me my desire,
For I'm thrown as the old Proverb goes;
Out of the frying-pan into the fire,
And there is none that will pitty my woes;
Then hang or drown'd thy selfe my muse,
For there is not a T. to chuse.
Most maides prove coy of late, though they seem holyer,
Yet I beleeve they are all of a kinde,
Like will to like, quoth the Devil to the Collier;
They will prove true when the devil is blind,
Let no man yeild to their desire;
For the burnt childe still dreads the fire.
What though my love as white as a Dove is?
Yet you would say if you knew all within,
That shitten come shites the beginning of Love is;
And for her favour I care not a pin;
No love of mine she ere shall be,
Sirreverence of your company.
Though her disdainfulnesse my heart hath cloven,
Yet I am of so stately a minde,
Nere to creep into her arse to bake in her oven
'Tis an old Proverbe, that cat will to kinde;
No, I will say untill I die,
Farewel and be hanged, that's twice god buy.
Alas no rejoycing or comfort I can take,
In her that regards not the worth of a lover,
A T. is as good for a sow as a pancake:
Swallow this Gudging, Ile fish for another;
She nought regards my aking heart,
Tell a Mare a tale, and she'l let a fart.
I am as sure as my shooes are made of leather
Without good advice, or fortunate helpes
We two shall never set our horses together,
This is so like a Beare that is rob'd of her whelps;
Therefore of me it shall nere be said
I have brought an old house upon my head.
Fall back fall edge,
I never will bounded be,
To make a match with tag rag or longtale;
Best is best cheap, if
I misse not the naile;
Shall
I toile gratis in their durt?
First they shall do as doth my sh
[...]rte.
Solicitation to a married Woman.
THou dost deny me cause thou art a wife,
Know she thats married lives a single life
That loves but one; abhor the nuptial curse
Ty'd thee to him, for better and for worse.
Variety delights the active blood,
And women the more comon the more good:
As all goods are, theirs no Adultery;
And marriage is the worst monopoly.
The learned Roman Clergy admits none
Of theirs to marry; they love all, not one;
And every Nun can teach you tis as meet,
To chang your bed-fellow, as smock or sheet:
Say, would you be content onely to eat
Mutton or beefe, and taft no other meat?
It would grow loathsome to you, & I know,
You have two pallets, and the best below.
Tom of Bedlam.
FRom forth the Elizian feilds
A place of restlesse soules,
Mad
Maudlin is come, to seek her naked
Tom,
Hells fury she controules:
The damned laugh to see her,
Grim
Pluto scolds and frets,
Caren is glad to see poor
Maudlin mad,
And away his boate he gets;
Through the Earth, through the Sea, through unknown iles
Through the lofty skies
Have I sought with sobs and cryes
For my hungry mad
Tom, and my naked sad
Tom,
Yet I know not whether he lives or dies.
My plaints makes
Satyrs civil,
The Nimphs forget their singing;
The Fairies have left their gambal and their theft
The plants and the trees their springing.
Mighty Leviathan took a consumption,
Triton broke his organ,
Neptune despis'd the Ocean;
Flouds did leave their flowing,
Churlish winds their blowing,
And all to see poor
Maudlins action.
The Torrid
Zone left burning,
The deities stood a striving,
Dispised
Jove from
Juno took a glove
And strooke down
Pan from whistling.
Mars for feare lay couching,
Apolloes Cap was fire'd;
Poor
Charles his
waine, was thrown into the ma
[...]n,
The nimble Post lay tir'd.
Saturn, Damas, Vulcan, Venus,
All lay husht and drunk;
Hells fire through heaven was rim,
Fates and men remorslesse, hated our greif & horness,
And yet not one could tell of
Tom.
Now whether shall I wander?
Or whether shall I flie?
The heavens do weep, the earth the aire the deepe
Are wearied with my cry.
Let me up and steal the Trumpet
That summons all to doome;
At one poor blast the Elements shall cast
All creatures from her wombe.
Dyon with his Heptune,
Death with destruction;
Stormy clouds and weather,
Shall call all soules together
Against I finde In
Tomkin ile provide a pumkin
And we will both be blisse together.
[...]
[...]
A Song.
SIr
Egley More that valiant Knight,
With his fa, la, lanctre down dille;
He fetcht his sword and he went to fight
With his fa, la, and his lanctre down dille;
As he went over hill and dale,
All cloathed in his coat of Male,
With his fa, la, his fa, la, and his lanctre down dille.
A huge great Dragon leapes out of his den,
With his
Which had kill'd the Lord knowes how many men,
With his
But when he saw Sir
Egley More,
Good lack had you seen how this Dragon did roare,
With his
This Dragon he had on a plaugy hide,
With his
Which could both sword and speare abide,
With his
He could not enter with hacks and cuts,
Which vext the Knight to the heart blood and guts;
With his
All the trees in the wood did shake,
With his
Stars did tremble and man did quake,
With his
But had you seen how the birds lay peeping,
T'would have made a mans heart to a fallen a weeping.
With his,
&c.
But now it was to late to feare,
With his
For now it was come to fight dog, fight beare,
With his
And as a yawning he did fall,
He thrust his sword in hilts and all.
With his
But now as the Knight in coller did burne,
With his
He ow'd the Dragon a shrewd good turne;
With his
In at his mouth his sword he bent,
The hilt appeared at his fundament.
With his
Then the Dragon like a Coward began to fly
With his
Unto his Den that was hard by;
With his
And there he laid him down and roar'd;
The Knight was vexed for his sword,
With his
The Sword it was a right good blad
With his
As ever Turk or Spaniard made;
With his
I for my part do forsake it,
And he that will fetch it, let him take it.
With his,
&c.
When all this was done to the Ale house he went,
With his
And by and by his two pence he spent; Dragon,
With his
For he was so hot with tugging with the
That nothing could quench him but a whole Flagon.
With his
Now God preserve our King and Queen,
With his
And eke in London may be seene,
VVith his
As many Knights, and as many more,
And all so good as Sir
Eglemore.
VVith his
Cupid and the Clown.
AS
Cupid took his bow and bolt
Some birding for to find,
He chanced on a Country Swaine
VVhich was some Yeomans hinde.
Clown.
VVell met faire boy, what sport abroad?
It is a goodly day;
The birds will set this frosty morne,
You cannot chuse but slay.
Goe hast, why Sir your eyes be out,
You will not bird I trow;
Alas go home, or else I think
The birds will laugh at you.
Cupid.
VVhy man? thou dost deceive thy selfe,
Or else my mother lyes,
VVho said although that I were blinde,
My Arrowes might have eyes.
Clo.
VVhy then thy mother is a Voole,
And thou art but an elfe,
To let thy arrowes to have eyes,
And go without thy selfe.
Cup.
Not so Sir Swaine, but hold your peace,
If I doe take a shaft;
Ile make thee know what I can doe;
VVith that the plough-man laught:
The angry
Cupid drew his bow;
Clo.
For God sake kill me not;
Cup.
Ile make thy Leather-head crake.
Clo.
Nay childe be loath of that.
The stinging arrow hot the marke,
And peirced the silly soule;
You might know by his hollow eyes
VVhether love had made the hole.
And so the Clown went bleeding home,
To stay it was no boot;
And knew that he could see to hit,
VVhich could not see to shoot.
A Song.
SIr
Francis, Sir
Francis, Sir
Francis his son,
Sir
Robert and eke Sir
William did come
And eke the good Earle of
Southampton
Marcht on his way most gallantly;
And then the Queen began to speak:
You are welcome home Sir
Francis Drake;
Then came my L. Chamberlain, and with his white staffe,
And all the people began for to laugh.
The Queens Speech.
Gallants all of British blood,
VVhy do not ye saile on th' Ocean flood?
I protest ye'are not all worth a Philberd,
Compared with Sir
Humphry Gilberd.
The Queens Reason.
For he walkt forth in a rainy day,
To the New found Land he took his way,
VVith many a gallant fresh & green;
He never come home agen: God bless the Queen.
A Song.
O Thou that sleepst like Pig in straw,
Thou Lady deare, Arise, Arise, Arise,
Hoping to keep thy son in awe,
Thy little twinckling eyes.
And having stretcht both leg and arme,
Put on thy white smock;
And for to keep thy body warme,
Thy Peticoat and Dock.
The Shops were opn'd long ago,
And youngest prentise go ho hoes;
To lay at's Mistrisses Chamber door,
His Masters shinning shoes.
Arise, Arise, why should you sleep?
Since you have slept enough;
Long since French boyes cry'd chimny sweep
And Damozels Kitchin-sluffe.
A Song.
NOne but my selfe my heart doe keep,
As I on Cowslip bed did sleep,
Neer to a pleasant boge;
VVhere thou my pretty rogue,
VVith knuckles knocking at my breast,
Did aske for my three-cornered guest;
And whispering said as soft as voice might be,
Come forth thou little rogue to me.
A thousand thousand feinds as black as soot,
VVith all their durty damnes to boote
Take thee, O take thee every day,
For stealing I and my poor heart away:
This heart of mine for joy did lep,
And follow'd thee even step by step;
Till tired at the last i'twas, thick and plump, and round before,
VVeighing a full pound weight and more:
And now its sunk unto the skin,
And is no bigger then head of pin.
A thousand thousand feinds as black as soot,
VVith all their durty damns to boot.
A Song.
ANdrew and
Maudlin, Rebecca and
W
[...]ll,
Margret and
Thomas, and
Jockey &
Mary;
Kate of the Kitchin, and
Kit of the Mill:
Dick the plow-boy, and
Joane of the Dary,
To solace their lives & to sweeten their labor
They met on a time with a pipe and a tabor.
Andrew was cloathed in Shepherds-gray,
And
Will had put on his holyday-Jacket;
Beck had a Petty coate of Popinga,
And
Meg had a Ribbond hung down to her placket;
Meg and
Moly in fries,
Tom and
Jack in leather
And so they began to foot it together.
Their head and their armes about them they flang
With all the might & the force that they had
Their legs were like flailes, & as loosly hang;
For they cudgl'd their arses as if they'd been mad;
Their faces did shine, & their fires did kindle,
And here they did trip it and turn like a spindle.
Andrew chuckt
Maudlin unde the chin,
Simper she did like a furmity kettle;
The sound of her blober-lips made such a din
As if her chops had been made of bell-mettle;
Kate laughing heartily at the same smack,
She presently answers it with a bum-crack.
At no Whitson-Ale where ere you had been
Such friskets & frekets as those lads & lasses;
The sweat it run down their faces to be seen,
And sure much more run down from their arses;
Nay had you been there, you might well have sworne
You had never beheld the like since you were borne.
Here they did fling, and there they did hoyt,
Here a hot breath, and there went a savour;
Here they did glance, and there they did lout;
Here they did simper, & there they did slabor;
Here was a hand, and there was a placket,
While their skirts and their breches went a flicket a flacket.
The Dance being ended, they sweat and they stanke,
The Maidens did smerk, and the young men did kisse um;
Cakes and Ale flue about, they clapt hands and they drunk;
They laught and they gigl'd until they bepist um;
Thus every young man gave each a greene mantle,
While their breast and their bellies went a pintle a pantle.
The Reform'd Ʋniversity.
DAme Learning of late is fled the Land,
Foule befal her suitors all
That could in her way no longer stand.
Diogenes come, seek up and down
At noon bright, with lanthorne and light
To see if she be hid under a Gowne.
Thus the whole University pry,
From the grand Doctor to the small fry
Peep here, and peep there, the devil a scholler you'l spy.
The freshman that before he has eaten,
All to gabbles his Predicables,
Breaks his fast upon buttr'd Seaton:
Who when he coms home to his mother confut's her
Talking bigger of casting a figure
In conjuring Sophoms, made by his Tutour.
Thus the whole University pry,
&c.
The
Soph when speech extempore makes,
Thinks he flyes in the skies,
When a jest in false Latin he makes:
Then led in triumph to the Sack Tuns
Thinks it fit to be drunk in wit
Whilst a tilt the Philosopher runs.
Thus through the whole University pry,
&c.
The Doctor that comes up with his man,
Promising
Nan to commence if he can,
And to buy Mistriss Doctress a Fan;
That his wife may sit above and go finer,
His silver he spends, and his Latin ends
Venturing far to deny the Minor.
Thus through the whole University,
&c.
At his Act he was sullen in the fight,
And would not answer: yet anon, Sir
He'l invite you kindly at night;
Though the poor Knight be cast off his crupper,
And shrewdly fear he has wrong'd your ears
He'l make your pallats amends at supper.
Thus the whole University,
&c.
The Emporik that to kill do's his endeavour
Whilst he framed diseased names
Able to cast a man into a Feaver:
When he comes to dispute in forme and matter,
Looking as pale as his Urinal
Shakes his head as he were casting of water.
Thus the whole University,
&c.
The Lawyer that comes up with his grace,
Forgetting in hast his Latin is cast,
And abus'd into a pittiful case;
Then vex't with Priscian will not faile
(Though the action be of Battery)
To breake his head, and cut off his taile.
Thus through the whole University,
&c.
The Schoolman his time in Nonsence spends,
Breaks his braine about Captaine,
Sweats to make
Scotus &
Thomas good friends
Learnedly scolding with reason doth cuffe;
Without doubt of the truth is out
And sans question is wise enough.
Thus the whole University.
&c.
The Schoole Divine that troubles his sence,
If created he were in Paradise:
Whether
Adam did eat it in innocence;
If the Apple was par'd that was eat at the fall,
What need they had of a Taylors trade,
What thread the fig leaves were sowed withal.
Thus the whole University,
&c.
The Preacher that with fury doth rush on
The Pulpit, threats and all to beats
The thred-bare conscience of the poor cushin
Who from a Coblers stall is driven,
Soules to mend to th' everlasting end,
And sets 'em upright in the way to heaven.
Thus the whole University,
&c.
Against the Pope poor man he takes on,
All
Bellarmine thwacks; till his head akes
Scourging the Whore of Babylon:
The roast meat suffers for the sinner;
Till folke devout with the glasse run out,
Swearing 'tis heresy to loose their dinner.
Thus the whole University,
&c.
The Orator that is bound to weare Sattin
With his
tantum's, and his
quantum's
On
Tullies head feizes a part of his Latin:
With a Rhetorick cring to Embassadors prat,
In Metaphor fine with Trope divine;
With a high timber'd stile, and a stately gate.
Thus the whole University,
&c.
And to the Chancellour makes a great face
Swell'd in puft-paste of Eloquence vast;
The phrases in
Godwins Antiquities trace.
With ale-conceit like a herring bloat,
With a candi'd voice, and action choice,
Like a Gentleman with a bur in his throat.
Thus the whole University,
&c.
The Poet that with the Nine Muses lies,
Till he betrays some bastard playes,
And undoes the Colledge with Comedies.
Though he anew translate the Psalmes,
Sings painted laies for holydayes;
Abuses devotion in Epigrames.
Thus the whole University,
&c.
The Schoolmaster that makes many a Martyr,
Boyes can teach, and to women preach,
For his halfe Crown once in a quarter:
He laies about like a Demi-God,
Picking riches out of their breeches,
With a construing face, and a peircing rod.
Thus the whole University,
&c.
The Freshman is simple, the Soph to salse,
The Philosopher sad, the Poet mad;
The Physitian weake, the Lawyer false,
The Orator cold, the Preacher too hot;
The Master of the schoole, &'s man a foole,
The Divine too curious, & Doctor a sot.
Thus through the whole University pry,
From the grand Doctor to the small fry,
And peepe here, and peepe there, the devil a scholler you'l spy.
The shiftlesse Student.
IN a Melancholly study,
None but my selfe,
Me thought my muse grew muddy,
After seven years reading,
And coftly breeding
I felt but could finde no pelfe.
Into learned wrags I have rent my plush and fatten,
And now am fit to beg in Hebrew, Greek, & Latin;
Instead of
Aristotle would I had got a pattent.
Alas poor schollar! whether wilt thou go?
Cambridge now I must leave thee
And follow Fate,
Colledge hopes deceive me;
I oft expected
To have been elected,
But desert is reprobate.
Masters of Colledges have no common graces,
And those that have fellowship have but common places,
And those that schollers are they must have handsome Faces.
Alas,
&c.
I have bow'd, I have bended,
And all in hope
One day to be befriended;
I have preach'd, I have printed,
What e're I hinted
To please our English Pope.
I worshipt toward the East but the sun does now forsake me,
I finde that I am falling the Notheren winds do shake me;
Would I had been upright, for bowing now will break me.
Alas poor scholler!
&c.
At great preferment I aimed
Witnesse my silke,
But now my hopes are mained;
I lookt lately
To live most stately
On a Dairy of Bellropes-milk.
But now alas! my selfe I must not flatter;
Bigamy of steepls is grown a hanging matter,
Each man must have but one, and Curates will grow fatter.
Alas!
&c.
Into some Country Village
Thither will I goe,
Where neither tith, nor tillage
The greedy Patron,
And parch'd Matron
Sweare to the Church they owe.
These if I can preach, & pray too on a sudden
And confute the Pope at adventures without studying,
Then ten pounds a year, beside a sunday pudding.
Alas!
&c.
All the Arts I have skill in
Divine and humane
Are not worth a shilling:
When the women heare me,
They do but jeere me,
And say I am profane.
Once I remember I preached with a weaver,
I quoted
Austine, he quoted
Dod &
Cleaver;
I nothing got, he got a cloake and beaver.
Alas!
&c.
Ships, ships, ships, I discover
Crossing the maine;
Shall I in, and over,
Turne Jew or Atheist,
Turke or Papist,
To
Geneva or
Amsterdame?
Bishopricks are voiding,
Scotland, shall I thither
Or follow
Windebank, or
Finch to see if either
Do want a Priest to shrieve them? O no tis blustring weather!
Alas!
&c.
Ho, Ho, Ho, I have hit it,
Peace goodman foole
Thou hast a trade will fit it;
Draw thy Indenture,
Be bound at adventure
An aprentise to a free-schoole.
There thou mayst command by
William Lillys Charter;
Their thou mayst whip, strip, hang and draw, and quarter;
And commit to the red rod, both
Tom, and
Will, and
Arthur.
I, I, tis thither, thither will I goe.
The Townsmen's Petition to the King that Cambridge might be made a City.
NOw Scholers looke unto it,
For you will all be undone,
For the last weeke you know it
The Townsmen rid to London.
The Maior if that he thrives,
Ha's promis'd on his word,
The King a paire of knives
If he'l grant him a sword;
That he may put the Beadles down,
And walke in worship here;
And kill all Schollers in the Town
That thus do domineere.
And then unto the Court
They do themselves repaire,
To make the King some sport,
And all his Nobles there.
He down upon his knee,
Both he and they together;
A sword he cryes (good King) give me
That I may cut a feather.
There's none at all I have at home
Will fit my hand I sweare;
But one of yours will best become
A sword to domineere.
These schollers keep such reaks,
As makes us all afraid;
For if to them a Townsman speake
They will pull off his beard.
But if your Grace such licence gives,
Then let us all be dead;
If each of us had not as lieve
He should pull of his head.
They call us silly Dunkirks too,
We know not why nor where;
All this they do, and more then this,
Cause they will domineere.
A speech, if I do make,
That has much learning im't;
A scholler comes and takes't
And sets it out in print.
We dare not touch them for our lives;
(Good King have pitty on us)
For first they play upon our wives,
And then make Songs upon us.
Would we had power to put,
And turne on them the jeere!
Then we'd do the best we could
But we would domineere.
They stand much on their wit;
We know not what it is:
But surely had we like it,
We had got some ere this.
But since it will no better be,
we are constrain'd to frame,
Petitions to your Majesty
These witty ones to tame.
A sword would seare them all (I say)
And put them in great feare;
A sword therefore (good King) we pray,
That we may domineere.
Which if your Grace permits,
We'l make them look about'um;
But yet they are such pleasant wits
We cannot live without'um.
They have such pretty arguments
To run upon our score;
They say faire words, & good intents
Are worth twice as much more:
And that a Clown is highly grac'd
To sit a scholler neer;
And thus we are like fooles out fac'd,
And they do domineere.
Now if you will renew,
To us your Graces Charter;
We'l give a ribbond blew
To some Knight of the Garter:
A cap also we want,
And maintenance much more;
And yet these schollers brag & vaunt
As if they had good store.
But not a peny we can see,
Save once in twice seven yeare;
They say it is no policy
Dunkerks should domineere.
Now reason, reason cryes alas!
Good Lordlings mark it well;
A scholler told me that it was
A perfect paralell.
There case and ours so equal stands,
As in a way-scale true;
A pound of Candles in each hand
Will neither higher shew.
Then prethee listen to my speech,
As thou shalt after heare:
And then I doubt it not (my Liege)
But we shall domineere.
Vice-chancellours they have,
And we have Maiors wise;
With Proctours, and with Taskers grave
Our Baliffes we may seize.
Their silver staves keep much adoe,
Much more our silver Maces;
And so methinks our Sergeants too
Their Beadle-squires out faces.
And if we had a sword I thinke,
Along the street to beare;
T'would make the proudest of'em shrink
And we should domineere.
They have Patrons of Nobility,
And we have our pertakers:
They'ave Doctors of Divinity,
And we our basket-makers,
Their heads our Brethren deare,
Their Fellowes our housholders;
Shall match them, & we think to bear
Them down by head and shoulders.
A Sword therefore good King, we pray
That we may
[...]p them there;
Since every dog must have his day,
Let us once domineere.
When they had made the King to laugh
And see one kiss his hand,
Then little mirth they make, as if
His minde they understand.
Avoid the roome an Usher cryes,
The King would private sup;
And so they al came down like fools
As they before went up.
They cry'd God blesse his Majesty,
And then no doubt (they sweare)
They'le have the Town made a City,
And there to domineere.
But wot you what the King did think,
And what his meaning was;
I vow unto you by this drinke
A rare device he has.
His Majesty has pen'd it,
That they'le be ne're the better;
And so he meanes to send it
All in a Latin letter;
Which when it comes for to be read,
It plainly will appeare;
The Townsmen they must hang the head,
And the schollers must domineere.
The draining of the Fennes.
THe up-land people are full of thoughts,
And do despaire of after-raine;
Now the sun is robb'd of his mornings draughts
They're afraid they shall never have shower againe.
Then apace, apace drink, drink deep, drink deep,
Whilst tis to be had lets the liquor ply;
The drainers are up, and a coile they keep,
And threaten to draine the Kingdome dry.
Our smaller rivers are now dry land,
The eles are turn'd to serpents there;
And if old father
Thames play not the man
Then farewel to all good English beere.
Then apace, apace drink,
&c.
The Dutchman hath a thirsty soul,
Our Cellars are subject to his call:
Let every man then lay hold on his boul
Tis pitty the German-Sea should have al.
Then apace, apace drink,
&c.
Our new Philosophers rob us of fire.
And by reason do strive to maintaine that theft;
And now that the water begins to retire
VVe shall shortly have never an Element left.
Then apace, apace drink,
&c.
VVhy should we stay here then and perish with thirst?
T' th' new world in the Moon away let us goe;
For if the Dutch Colony get thither first
'Tis a thousand to one but they'le draine that too.
Then apace, apace drink,
&c.
Nonsense.
OH that my Lungs could bleat like butter'd pease;
But bleating of my lungs hath caught the itch,
And are as mangy as the Irish-Seas,
That doth ingender windmills on a Bitch.
I grant that Rainbowes being lull'd asleep,
Snort like a woodknife in a Ladies eyes;
Which maks her grieve to see a pudding creep
For creeping puddings onely please the wise.
Not that a hard row'd-herring should presum
To swing a tyth pig in a Cateskin purse;
For fear the hailstons which did fall at Rome
By lesning of the fault should make it worse.
For 'tis most certain Winter wool-sacks grow
From geese to swans, if men could keep them so,
Till that the sheep shorn Planets gave the hint
To pickle pancakes in Geneva print.
Some men there were that did supose the skie
Was made of Carbonado'd Antidotes;
But my opinion is a Whales left eye,
Need not be coyned all King
Harry groates:
The reason's plain for
Charons westerne barge
Running a tilt at the subjunctive mood,
Beckned to Bednal green, & gave him charge
To fasten padlockes with Antartick food:
The end will be the Millponds must be laded,
To fish for whitepots in a Country dance;
So they that suffered wrong & were upbraded
Shal be made freinds in a left-handed trance.
In praise of Ale.
WHenas the Chilehe Rocko blowes,
And Winter tells a heavy tale;
When Pyes and Dawes & Rookes & Crows,
Sit cursing of the frosts and snowes;
Then give me Ale.
Ale in Saxon
Rumken then,
Such as will make grim
Malkin prate;
Rouseth up valour in all men,
Quickens the Poets wit and pen,
Dispiseth Fate.
Ale that the absent battle fights,
And frams the march of Swedish drums;
Disputes the Princes Lawes and rights,
And what is past and whats to come,
Tells mortal wights.
Ale that the Plowmans heart up keeps,
And equals it with Tyrants thrones;
That wipes the eyes that over weepes,
And lulls in dainty and secure sleepes,
His wear'ed bones.
Grandchilde of
Cores, Barlies Daughter,
Wines Emulus neighbour, if but stale;
Innobling all the Nimphs of water,
And filling each mans heart with laughter;
Ha, ha, give me Ale.
A Ridle of a Goosbery.
THere is a Bush fit for the once,
That beareth pricks and precious stones,
The fruit of which most Ladies pull;
'Tis round and smooth and plump and full:
It yeilds rare moysture pure and thick,
And seldome makes a Lady sicke;
They put it in, and then they move it,
Which makes it melt, and then they love it:
So what was round and plump and hard,
Growes lanck and thin, and poor and mar'd;
The sweetness suckt, their holes wipe they
And throw the empty skin away.
A Bull Prologue.
YOu that do fitting stand to see our Play
Which must this night be acted, here to day,
Be silent pray; though you aloud do talk
Stir not a foot, though up & down you walk;
For every silent noise the Players see
Will make them mute, & speak full angerly;
But go not yet, until you do depart
And unto us your smiling frownes impart;
And we most thanklesse thankful will appear
And waite upon you home; but yet stay here.
Another Prologue.
BE blithe Fopdodles! for my Author knows
How to delight your eyes, your ears, your nose;
But first of all your eyes shall pleased be
With cloth of Gold, Tyssue and Taffate:
Blow but your nose, and purifie that sense,
For you shal smell perfumes & franck incense
And eke soft musick: therefore fit you still,
Smile like the Lilly flower, whilst trumpets sound,
And our endeavours with your love be crown'd.
An Epilogue upon the honest Lawyer.
Gentlemen,
He that wrot this Play ne'er made Play before
And if this like not, ne're wil write Play more
And so he bid me tell you.
A Resolution not to Marry.
IF she be fair, I feare the rest,
If she be sweet, Ile hope the best;
If she be faire, they'l say she'l doe,
If she be foule she'l doe so too.
If she be faire she'l breed suspect,
If she be foule, she'l breed neglect.
If she be borne of the better sort,
Then she doth savour of the Court;
If she be of the City borne,
She'l give the City armes the horne.
If she be borne of Parents base,
I scorne her virtues for her place;
If she be faire and wirty too,
I feare the harme her wit may do:
If she be faire and do want wit,
I love no beauty without it.
In briefe, be what she will I'm one,
That can love all, but will wed none.
Loves Progresse.
WHo ever loves, if he do not propose
The right true end of love; hes one that goes
To sea, for nothing but to make him sick
And love's a beare whelp born, if over licke
Our love; and cause it new strange forms to take
We erre: and of a lump a monster make.
Were not a Calfe a Monster, that was grown
Fac't like a man, though better then his own.
Perfection is in Unity, so prefer
One woman first: and then one thing in her.
I where I value Gold, may think upon
The dactilenesse, the application;
The wholesomenesse, the ingenuity;
From rust, from soile, from fire forever free:
But if
I love it, 'tis because its made
By (our new nature) use, the soul of trade:
All this in women we might think upon,
If women had them; and yet love but one.
Can men more injure women then to say
They love for that, by which they are not they
Makes virtue woman? must
I cool my blood,
Till
I both finde, and see one wise and good?
May barren Angels love so: But if we
Make love to woman; virtue is not she;
As beauty is not, nor wealth; he that strayes thus
From her, to hers; is more Adulterous,
Then he that took her maid. Search every, spheare,
& firmament; our
Cupid is not there:
He's an infernal good; and under ground
With
Pluto dwells, where gold & fire abound:
Men to such gods their sacrificing coales,
Laid not on Altars, but in pits and holes.
Although we see Celestial bodies move
Above the earth, the earth we till and love,
So we her heires contemplate; words & heart,
And virtues: but we love the centrique part.
Nor is the soul more worthy, or more fit
For love then that; as infinite as it.
But in attaining this desired place,
How much they erre, that set out at the face?
The haire a Forrest is of ambushes,
Of springs, snares, fetters, and manicles:
The brow becalms us, when tis sooth & plain;
And when tis wrinkled, shipwracks us again:
Smooth, 'tis a Paradise, where we would have
Imortal stay: and wrinkled, 'tis our grave.
The nose like to the first Meridian runs,
Not twixt an East, & West; but twixt two suns:
It leaves a cheeke a rosey Hemispheare
On either side; and then directs us where
Upon the Islands fortunate we fall,
Not faint Canaries; but Ambrosial,
Her swelling lips: to which when we are come
We anchor there, & think our selves at home:
For they sing all their Syrens songs; & there
Wise
Delphique Oracles do fill the eare:
There in a Creek, where chosen Pearles do swell
The Remora; her cleaving tongue doth dwell.
Those, and the promontary faire, her chinne
Ore past: and the straight Hellespont, between
The Sestos and Abidos of her breasts;
(Not of two Lovers, but two loves the nests)
Succeeds a boundlesse Sea; but that thine eye
Some Island moles may scattered there discry:
And sailing towards her India in that way,
Shall at her faire Atlantique Navel stay.
Though thence the torrent be thy Pilot made;
Yet ere thou come where thou wouldest be imbay'd
Thou shalt upon another forrest set:
Where many shipwracke: and no farther get
When thou art there. Consider well this chace
Mispent; by the beginning at the face.
Rather set out below; practice my art,
Some simitry the foot hath with that part
Which thou dost seek; and is as Map for that;
Lovely enough to stoop, but not stay at:
Least subject to disguise, and change it is;
Men say the Devil never can change his:
It is the Emblem that hath figured
Firmnesse; 'tis the first part that comes to bed.
Civility we see refin'd; the kisse
Which at the face begun, transplanted is
Since to the hand, since to the Imperial knee,
Now at the papal foot delights to be,
If Kings think that the nearer way, and do
Kisse from the foot, Lovers may do so too.
For as free Sphears move faster far than can
Birds; whom the aire resists: so may that man
Which goes the empty, and Aetherial wayes;
Then if at beauties elements he stayes.
Rich nature hath in women wisely made
Two purses, and their mouths aversly laid:
Thus they which to the lower tribute owe,
That way which that Exchequer looks, must go;
He which doth not, his error is as great,
As who by glister gives the stomack meat.
J. D.
FINIS.