The Golden Age: Or, An Age of plain-dealing.  
To a pleasant new Court tune: Or, Whoop do me no harm good man.  


 
COme grant me, come lend me  
your listening ears:  
The golden Age now against  
plainly appears,  
Carouse away sorrow,  
and fling away fears,  
Leave your wife wealthy,  
she'll never shed tears:  
Oh this is a golden Age,  
Oh this is a jovial Age,   

The bountiful Lawyer  
that never doth wrong,  
To plead poor men's cases  
for price of a song,  
Who is by bright Angels  
still guided along,  
For twenty two shillings,  
he'll lend you his tongue,  
To plead in this golden Age,  
Oh this is a jovial Age.   

The Ladies have put away  
painting and pride,  
The foolish French fashion  
they cannot abide,  
Without Mask or Caroches,  
they civilly ride,  
And to the poor people  
Their purses open wide:  
Oh this is a bountiful Age,  
Oh this is a liberal Age.   

Base dealing is banished,  
and women grown chaste,  
And by their own Husbands  
will scarce be embraced,  
And will not their times  
in idleness waste,  
For fear in their carriage  
Thou should be disgraced:  
Oh this is an honest Age,  
Oh this is a hopeful Age.   

Your Citizen's bounty  
is grown now of late,  
To raise a poor Gallants  
decayed estate,  
he'll utter his wares  
at a reasonable rate,  
And unto all comers  
Keep open his gate:  
Oh this is a bountiful Age,  
Oh this is a liberal Age.   

The valorous Soldiers  
stout manhood is spread▪  
With arms on his back,  
and Helmet on's head,  
With Pike and with Musket▪  
to the field they tread,  
While the base Coward  
Lies sleeping in bed:  
Oh this is a valorous Age,  
Oh this is a warlike Age▪   

The Courtier, his Tailor  
doth pay with good will,  
The Tailor he thinketh,  
his payment is ill.  
But yet if he yearly,  
do cancel his Bill,  
His only desire is  
To deal with him still:  
Oh this is a venturing Age,  
Oh this is a trusting Age.   

The Usurer that lent out  
his money before,  
Hath burned his Bonds,  
and dareth no more,  
Because his broad conscience  
oppresseth him sore,  
The Devil still for him,  
 
Oh this is a m●nd●ng Age▪  
Oh this is 〈…〉 Age.    

The second Part.  
To the same Tune.  

 
THe covetous aged,  
do sore bruise their brains,  
To make their young Gallants,  
sole Lords of their gains:  
But being once buried,  
full little remains,  
But idle consuming  
The fruit of their pains:  
Oh this is a wasting Age.  
Oh this is a spending Age.   

The prodigal spender  
consumeth his wit,  
With foolish devices,  
his humours to fit,  
At Ale and Tobacco,  
if he can sit,  
Like to a brave Gallant,  
Taketh he it:  
Oh this is a smoking Age,  
Oh this is a fiery Age.   

Dull Drunkards sit drinking,  
and never give o'er.  
Till they have run freely  
on the Vintners score,  
Brass farthings in charity,  
fly to the poor,  
While many gold pieces  
Are spent on a W—:  
Oh this is a dissembling Age,  
Oh this is a wanton Age.   

Old Robin Russet coat  
walks without Cloak,  
Amongst our brave Gallants,  
with pictures in's poke,  
And learns the new fashion,  
to feed upon smoke,  
A food far more fitting,  
The Devil to choke:  
Oh this is a burning Age,  
Oh this is a smoking Age.   

Grim the black Collier,  
brings Coals to the town,  
In Sacks more than measure,  
yet spends he his crown,  
From the broad Pillory,  
to keep himself down.  
Amongst the blue Beadles,  
To purchase renown,  
Oh this is an honest Age,  
Oh this is a mending Age.   

The Baker, the Brewer,  
do both mend their size,  
And with their plain dealing,  
base falsehood defies,  
Poor naked conscience,  
well clothed now lies,  
In their warm Bakehouse,  
Still held in great prize:  
Oh this is a changing Age,  
Oh this is a bettering Age.   

The Weaver, Miller and Tailor  
leave off for to steal,  
And with their worke-masters  
more honestly deal,  
In stead of dry brownebread,  
they make a good meal,  
Or else to the Tapsters  
We must here appeal▪  
Oh this is an eating Age,  
Oh this is a drinking Age.   

All Tradesmen grow weary,  
of living by wrong.  
The Punk and the Cutpurse  
have thrived too long,  
The Hangman hath haltred  
these Rascals up strong:  
And so for one penny,  
I sell you my Song.  
Oh this is a tottering Age,  
Oh this is a hanging Age.     

At London printed for I. T.