PIMLYCO. OR, Run Redcap.  
'tis a mad world at Hogsdon.  
AT LONDON, ¶ Printed for Io Busbie, and Geo LOFTIS, and are to be sold under St. Peter's Church in Cornhill. 1609.   

Patrono Pimlyconico.  
Fancy Claro, Facetijs Raro, Thomae Normano.  
ALL hail, (o Tom Norman,)  
I make thee, the Foreman  
Of Pimlyco jury:  
You are charged to inquire Sir,  
What kindles that fire sir,  
That burns with such fury.  
What fire do you suppose sir?  
'tis the fire of your Nose sir,  
Which your Face bears about.  
For (like to the furnace,  
That glows in the Glass-house,)  
It never goes out.  
To keep that high Colour,  
And make it look fuller,  
You shall die it in grain sir:  
Of the Pimlyco juice,  
If you get the right use,  
O how well will it stain sir.  
I create you Sole Patron  
Of the Pimlyco Squadron,  
choose therefore Alecunners.  
That now against Easter,  
(If you purpose to feast there)  
may be your forerunners.  
hoist then up your Sail sir,  
For rich Pimlyco Ale sir,  
That colours like Roses,  
With your Copper Seal, mark sir,  
All those that Embark sir,  
For Pimlyco-Noses.  Vade, Vale, Cave ne titubes.  

To all travelers.  
YOu that wear out your lives and weary your bodies, in Discovery of strange Countries, (be it for pleasure or profit) Rig out a Fleet, and make a Voyage to an Island which could never be found out by the Portugals, Spaniards, or Hollanders, but only (and that now of late) by Englishmen. The name of it is Pimlyco, Here have I drawn a large Map of it: by this Chart, may you in a few hours, and with little or no wind, arrive in the very mouth of the Haven. Some that have traveled thither, affirm it to be a part of the Continent, but the better sort of Navigators say, it is an Island: full of people it is, and they are very wild, the women being able to endure more, and to do better Service than the men. divers are of opinion, that it is an enchanted Island, and haunted with strange Spirits; for the people there, once every Moon, are either stark mad, or else lose their own shapes, and are transformed into Beasts, yet within twelve hours, recover their wits and shapes again. The Pimlyconians are most of them Maltmen, and exceeding good fellows, all their delight being in Eating and Drinking; they live not long, for a man can hardly star amongst them two days: if he do, he is in great danger, by reason of a certain disease, (which the Island naturally breeds) called the Staggers, through which, many of them come to their Downfall, or if they scape that, then are they in fear to be made away by Smallshot, in discharging of which, the Pimlyconians are very active and cunning.  
The Island begins now to be as rich as it is populous: fish hath been seldom taken there, but flesh is better cheap than Mackerel here. Wild Ducks and wild Geese fly there up and down in abundance: you may have a Goose soweed in Pimlyco, for the value of twelve pence sterling. Woodcocks (in many months of the year) are to be catched there by whole dozen. It is full of fat pasture, and that's the reason such multitudes of young Colts run there. A hot Climate it is, and by that means the people are subject to infection, which takes them first in the Head, and so falls down into their legs, and those failing, they are (in a manner) gone. The Governor of the Island hath much ado to keep himself upright, so that he is compelled to give those that are under him, often times very Hard measure, yet are they so unruly, that every hour one or other goes to the Pot.  
Thus have I given you a taste, both of the People and of the Country; if you sail thither, you may drink of deeper knowledge. But take heed you take a skilful Pilot with you; be freighted with as much wit as you can carry aboard, for all will be little enough to bring you from thence, and take heed what Lading you take in there, for the commodities of Pimlyco have sunk many Merchants. Pay thanks for my Council, and think well of my Pimlyconian Discovery.  
Farewell.   

Pimlyco.  
TRees that of late (like wasted Heirs, 
Description of the Spring.   
Or like old men, dried up with cares,)  
Stood poorly, now look fresh & green,  
As Bankrupts new set up again.  
meadows that whilom barren lay,  
(More naked than the trodden way,)  
Wear garments now, woven all of Flowers,  
And wait on Flora in her Bowers,  
Shepherds that durst not, (for the cold,)  
The Snowy heads of Hills behold,  
Now (deftly piping) from cool Fountains,  
Led Lambs and Kids up to the Mountains.  
The Day, when all Birds hold their Weddings,  
(Dancing Love-measures in soft Tredding,)  
Is passed: The Year did it resign,  
In honour of Saint Valentine.  
And now his Feathered Couples sing,  
Their Nuptial Songs before the Spring.  
The Vernal Gates are set wide open,  
And strewed with Flowers and Herbs, in token  
That May (loves Queen) is coming in,  
Who 12. full Moons hath absent been.  
In this Sweet Season, from my bed,  
I early rose, being wakened  
Byth' beating of a Golden-flame,  
Which (to me) in at window came.  
For from his Palace in the East, 
Description of the Sunrising.   
The King of Light in Purple dressed,  
(Set thick with Gold and precious Stone,  
Which like a Rock of Diamond shun,)  
Was drawn along heavens Silver way,  
By the 4. Horses of the Day.  
And as the Chariot mounted higher,  
The Sun-god seemed to ride in fire,  
Forth came he in this brave adorning,  
To court his Love (the Rosio Morning.)  
The Chains of pearl about her neck,  
He took from her himself to deck,  
They were her favours and he wore them  
Till night, and did again restore them.  
The wonders (of unvalued worth,)  
Which these two wrought, enticed me forth;  
Weary with walking, down I threw  
My body, on a bank where grew  
The pretty Daisy, (Eye of Day,)  
The Primrose which does first display  
Her youthful coloors, and first dies;  
Beauty and Death are Enemies.  
Cowslips sprung likewise here and there,  
Each blade of grass (stiff as a Spear)  
Standing upright to guard the Flowers,  
As if they had been their Paramoures.  
Anon a Younker and his Lass,  
Might I see wrestling on the Grass,  
She swore she would not fall, and yet  
She fell, and did a Greene-Gowne get,  
(A Greene-gowne, but no Gownè of Greene..)  
At length (in Couples) more were seen:  
Some ran, some walked, and some sat kissing,  
Nothing was lost, but what was missing.  
So close they joined in their Delights,  
That they all seemed Hermaphrodites,  
Or rather Mermaids on the land,  
Because the she's had th' upper hand.  
They graced the fields, the fields them graced,  
For though none were in order placed,  
But sat (as Flowers in Gardens grow)  
Thinly, which makes the braver show.  
Yet (like so many in one Room,)  
All seemed to weave within a loom,  
Some curious piece whose beauty stands,  
on the rare Skill of sundry hands.  
As thus they sat, and I them saw,  
A Frame (as rare) mine eyes did draw  
(With wonder) to 〈◊〉 a far,  
The brightness of the kingdoms 
* London.  Star;  
A thousand Stéeples, Turrets, Towers,  
(Lodgings, all fit for Emperors.)  
Lifted their proud heads 'bove the Sky,  
As if they had sole- sovereignty,  
O'er all the Buildings in the Land,  
And seemed on Hills of Gould to stand,  
For the Sun's Beams on them being shed,  
They showed like Ours new burnished.  
Upon the Left hand and the Right,  
Two 
* Islington, & Hogsdon.  Towns (like Cities) fed the Sight,  
With pleasure and with admiration,  
For (as they stand) they bear proportion,  
As to an Army do the Wings,  
(The main Battalion led by Kings.)  
Mine eye his objects could not vary,  
Yet took delight here still to tarry,  
But not knowing how to wear out time,  
By chance I found a Book in Rhyme, 
Skelton.   
Writ in an age when few wryt well,  
(Pan's Pipe (where none is) does excel.)  
O learned Gower! It was not thine,  
Nor Chaucer, (thou art more Divine.)  
To Lydgates' grave I should do wrong,  
To call him up by such a Song.  
No, It was One, that ('bove his Fate,)  
Would be Styled Poet Laureate;  
Much like to Some in these our days,  
That (as bold Prologues do to Players,)  
With Garlands have their foreheads bound,  
Yet only empty Skulls are crowned:  
Never stopping,  
But ever dropping.  
Her Skin loose and slack,  
Grained like a Sack,  
With a crooked back.  
Her eyen gowndy,  
Are full, unlowndy,  
For they are bleared,  
And she grey heard,  
jawed like a jetty,  
A man would have pity,  
To see how she's gummed,  
Fingered and thumbed;  
gently jointed,  
Greased and anointed,  
Up to the knuckles,  
The bones her buckles,  
Together made fast,  
Her youth is far passed:  
Footed like a Plane,  
Legs like a Crane,  
And yet she will jet,  
Like a jolly Set,  
In her fur'd flocket  
And grey russet rocket,  
With Simper the cocket.  
Her Huke of Lincoln green,  
It had been hers I ween,  
More than forty year,  
And so it doth appear:  
And the green bare threads  
Look like Sere weeds,  
Withered like hay.  
The wool worn away,  
And yet I dare say,  
She thinks herself gay  
Upon the holiday,  
When she doth her array,  
And girdeth in her getes,  
Stitched & prancked with pletes:  
Her Kirtle Bristol red,  
With clothes upon her head,  
That they weigh a sow of lead,  
writhe in a wonder wise,  
After the Saracens gise,  
With a whim-wham,  
Knit with a trim-tram,  
Upon her brain pan  
Like an Egyptian,  
Capped about,  
When she goeth out,  
Herself for to show,  
She draweth down the dew,  
With a pair of heels,  
As broad as two wheels,  
She hobbles as she goes,  
With her blanket hose,  
Her sboone smeared with tallow,  
Greased upon dirt,  
That danbeth the Skirt.  

Primus Passus.  

And this comely Dame,  
I understand her name  
Is Elynor Rumming,  
At home in her woning:  
And as men say  
She dwelled in Sothray,  
In a certain stead  
Beside Lederhede,  
She is a tonnish gib,  
The Devil and she be Sib.   

I Red and smiled, but at the last,  
As toward the town mine eye I cast,  
In mingled troops I might behold  
Women and men (some young, some old)  
Like to a Springtide, strongly flowing  
To Hogsdon, not one backward going.  
Out of the City rushed the stream,  
A while (me thought) I did but dream,  
That I saw people, till at last,  
Hogsdon ore-flowde, it swelled so fast.  
I mused that from the City ventured  
Such heaps: for though the Spring was enterde,  
They flocked not thus to hear the Tune  
Of that bird who sings best in june,  
(Yclept the Cuckoo) as yet her note  
She had not perfect, but by rote:  
Ne durst she sing yet, being not able  
In English, but in— to gabble.  
Nor was it like they made these througs,  
To hear the Nightingales sad songs,  
For Lust (in these days) bears such price,  
They are but mocked that check that Vice.  
Still more and more this Sea broke in,  
Yet ebbed in one half hour again,  
The Voyagers that first did vail,  
(Having their Lading) homeward sail.  
But with a side-wind were they driven,  
Yet all cast anchor in one Haven.  
Up went my sails. With much ado,  
In the same Port I anchorde too.  
Being landed there, all I could find  
Was this, They came to hunt the Hind.  
Into their Park I forthwith went,  
Being entered, all the air was rend  
With a most strange confused noise,  
That sounded nothing but mere voice.  
Amazed I stood to see a Crowd  
Of Civil Throats stretched out so loud:  
(As at a New-play) all the Rooms  
Did swarm with Gentiles mixed with Grooms.  
So that I truly thought, all These  
Came to see Shore, or Pericles,  
And that (to have themselves well placed)  
Thus brought they victuals (they fed so fast)  
But then (again me thought) This shoal  
Swom thither for Baker's dole  
Or Brewers, and that for their soul's sakes,  
They thus were served with Ale and cakes:  
For jugs of Ale came reeling in,  
As if the Pots had drunkard's been.  
A sailor (that had narrow eyes  
Through fumes that up to his brainess did rise)  
Got I by th' arm, (children they say,  
And Fools and drunkards, truth bewray)  
Him therefore I desired to show  
Why all these met.— 'tis Pimlyco—  
My Friend, 'tis Pimlyco (he cried)  
And no word could I get beside.  
This made me madder than before,  
I asked another, and he swore  
Zounds— I'm ten strong in Pimlyco—  
What's that said I?— stout Pimlyco—  
And back, at least three yards he réeles,—  
Pimlyco trips up good men's heels  
(Lisping) he cries, and down he falls,  
Yet for more Pimlyco— still he calls.  
What Pimlyco should mean I wondered,  
Because so loud, that word still thundered  
From all their throats through all their ears,  
At length, a reverend man (whose years  
Had turned his head and beard all grey,  
And came but to behold That Play,  
And not to act himself The Vice)  
Told all the Drunken Mysteries.  
And that the Ale got such high Fame,  
Only by that fond, senceleffe Name.  
I laughed to see a World (so wise,  
So subtle in all villainies,  
So scorning to be laughed to scorn)  
Should be so drowned with Ale in Corne.  
Yet since in Hogsdon all ran mad,  
I played the Madman too, and had  
My jug brought in; a draft or twain  
Made such hot boiling in my brain,  
That (faster than their Pots were filled)  
From my Invention were distilled  
Verses in Pimlyco's high praise,  
Pimlyco crowned my head with bays.  
For strait I felt myself a Poet,  
And (like some fools) in Rhyme must show it.  
Yet first I turned o'er Skelton's Rhymes  
With those mad times to weigh out Times,  
And try how Elynor Rummings Ale,  
Was Brewed; and Drawn, and set to Sale,  
What Guests drunk there, and what Drink here,  
In this wild Landscape shall appear.   

BUt to make up my tale,  
She brueth nappy Ale,  
And maketh thereof port sale,  
To travailers, to tinkers,  
To sweaters, to swinkers,  
And all good Ale drinkers,  
That will nothing spare,  
But drink till they stare,  
And bring themselves bare,  
With now away the Mare,  
And let us flay care,  
As wife as an hare.  
Come who so will  
To Elynor on the hill,  
With fill the Cup fill,  
And sit thereby still.  
Early and late,  
Thither cometh Kate,  
Cisley and Sare,  
With their legs bare,  
And also their feet,  
Hardly full unsweet,  
With their heels dagged,  
Their kirtles all to jagged,  
Their smocks all to ragged,  
With titters and tatters,  
Bring dishes and platters,  
With all their might running,  
To Elynor Rumming,  
To have of her Tunning,  
She leaveth them of the hame,  
And thus beginneth the game.  
Some wenches come unbraced,  
With their naked paps,  
That flippes and flaps,  
It wigs and it wags,  
Like tawny saffron bags,  
A sort of fowl drabs,  
All scurvy with scabs,  
Some be fly bitten,  
Some skewed as a kitten,  
Some with a shoe clout,  
Bind their heads about,  
Some have no hair lace,  
Their locks about their face,  
Their tresses untrust,  
All full of unlust.  
Some look strawry,  
Some cawry mawry,  
Full untidy tegges,  
Like rotten eggs,  
Such a lewd sort,  
To Elinor resort,  
From tide to tide;  
Abide, abide,  
And to you shallbe told,  
How her Ale is sold,  
To mawt and to mould.    

Secundus Passus.  
Some have no money,  
That thither commy,  
For their Ale to pay,  
That is a shrewd array.  
Elinour sweared, nay  
Ye shall not bear away  
My Ale for nought  
By him that me bought.  
With hay dog hay,  
Have these dogs away,  
With get me a staff,  
The swine eat my draff,  
Strike the hogs with a club,  
They have drunk up my swilling tub,  
For be there never so much press,  
These swine go to the high dese,  
The sow with her pigs,  
The Bore his tail wrigges  
Against the high bench,  
With foe, there is a stench,  
Gather up thou wench,  
Seest thou not what is fall,  
Take up drit and all,  
And bear out of the hall,  
God give it ill preving,  
Cleanly as evil cheving.  
But let us turn plain,  
There we left again,  
For as ill a patch as that,  
The hens run in the mash fat,  
For they go to roost,  
Straight over the Ale joust,  
And dung when it comes  
In the Ale tons,  
Then Elinor taketh  
The mash bowl, and shaketh  
The hens dung away,  
And skommeth it in a trey  
Where as the Yeast is,  
With her mangy fistiss:  
And sometimes she blens,  
The dung of her hens  
And the Ale together,  
And saith Gossip come hither,  
This Ale shall be thicker,  
And flower the more quicker,  
For I may tell you,  
I learned it of a jew,  
When I began to brew,  
Drink now while it is new.  
And ye may it brook,  
It shall make you look  
Younger than you be  
Years two or three.  
For ye may prove it by me,  
Behold she said, and see,  
How bright I am of blee,  
Ich am not cast away,  
That can my husband say,  
When we kiss and play,  
In lust and in liking,  
He calleth me his whyting,  
His Mulling, and his Nittine  
His Nobbes and his Coney,  
His sweeting and his honey,  
With basse my pretty bonny,  
Thou art worth good and money,  
This make I my falyre fanny,  
Till that he dream and dronny.  
For after all our sport,  
Than will he ront and snort,  
Then sweetly together we lie,  
As two Pigs in a sty.  
But we will turn plain,  
Where we left again.   

Tertius passus.  
In stead of coin and monny,  
Some bring her a coney,  
And some a pot with honey,  
Some a salt, and some a spoon,  
Some their hose, some their shoes.  
Some ran a good trot,  
With a skillet or a pot, etc.  
Cum multis aliis, quae nunc perscribere longum est.   

Hoc est Skeltonicum, Incipit Pimlyconicum.  
OF Pimlyco now let us sing,  
Rich Pimlyco, the newfound Spring,  
Where men and women both together,  
To warm their veins in frosty weather,  
Where men and women hot bloods cool,  
By drinking Pimlycoes' boiled pool.  
Strong Pimlyco, the nourishing food  
To make men fat, and breed pure blood;  
Deep Pimlyco, the Well of Glee,  
That draws up merry company.  
Bewitching Pimlyco, that ties  
The Rich and Poor, the Fool and Wise,  
All in one knot. Of that we write;  
Inspire your Poet to indite,  
You Barley Muses Pimlyconian,  
He scorns the Muses Helyconian;  
(Poor souls!) they none but water drink,  
But Pimlyco dropped into his ink,  
His lines shall fly with merry gale,  
No Muse is like to Pimlyco Ale.  
Not the neat Wine De Orleans;  
Nor of Hebrian, (best in France;)  
Not Gascoigne, nor the Bordeaux Vine,  
Nor that which flows from swift-foot Rhyne;  
Not Sheeries S●cks, nor Charnico,  
Peter Semine, nor Mallago,  
Nor th' Amber-colored Candie grape,  
Which drunk with Eggs makes men to— Ape.  
Nor can the Greekish Vintage show  
A liquor matching Pimlyco.  
Not Hippocras (the drink of women.)  
Nor Bastards (that are dear, but common,)  
Nor the fat lecherous Alicante,  
Whose juice repairs what Backs do want.  
Nor Waters drawn by Distillations,  
With medicinable Operations,  
As Rosa Solis, Aqua Vitae,  
And Nugs of Balm, so quick, and sprighty;  
No, nor the Irish Vsquebagh,  
Of which, the Kern whole pints will quaff,  
Strong Vsquebagh! that hotlier burns  
Than Sacks, and white the Entrails turns.  
Nor welsh Metheglin, (brown as berry)  
Lancashire Cider, Werstershier Perry,  
Nor yet a draft of Derby Ale,  
Nor mother Bunch, (long since grown stale,)  
Nor that old twopenny Ale of Pynder,  
That many a Porter oft did hinder  
From carrying Burdens, for (alack!)  
The Ale had strength to break his back.  
Nor all those Drinks of Northern Climes,  
Whose Brewing shall fill up our Rhymes,  
Brant, Rensque, and the clear Roman,  
The Belo, Crasno, and Patisane,  
Peeva (to them as is our Beer,)  
With spiced Meads (wholesome, but dear)  
As Mead Obarne, and Meade Cherunck,  
And the base Quasse by Peasants drunk.  
With all the rest that whet the spirits  
Of Ruffs and cold muscovites.  
Not all these Drinks, nor thousand more,  
Can reach the fame of Pimlyco.  
To prove (o Pimlico) these thine honours,  
Armies each day spread Crimson benners,  
And with h●e Colours, and quick shot,  
Fight stiffly till the field be got.  
All Sexes, all Degrees, all Nations,  
All men of Arts or Occupations,  
(As if for gain to some great Fair,)  
Only for Ale to thee repair.  
The English, Scottish, Dutch and French,  
Sat whistling here upon one bench:  
If but of Pimlyco they drink hard,  
Betwixt them falls not one foul word,  
They kiss like brothers, Dutch, French, Scot,  
Are all One in a Pimlyco Pot.  
Hither come Sergeants with their Maces,  
Hither come Bailiffs with red faces,  
Hither come Lads and greaste Lownes,  
Hither come pockets full of Crowns,  
Hither come those can scarce find Bail  
For six pence, yet spend eight in Ale.  
Usurer's battle (here) their pence,  
The Devil can scarce keep Brokers hence,  
The Lawyer that in Termtime takes  
Fat fees, pleads here for Ale and Cakes.  
Doctors, Proctors, Clerks; Atturneiss,  
To Pimlyco make sweattie journeys,  
And (being well Armed with Buckram bags,)  
Fight under Hogsdons' scarlet flags.  
The Wind our Merchants this way drives,  
Whilst their men take up for their wives  
Rooms before hand: and oft it hits,  
Not far from them some Fishwife sits.  
For (here) of manners none take heed,  
First come, first served, first served first feed.  
Citizens, Soldiers, Seamen, Scholars,  
Gentlemen, Clowns, Millers, Colliers,  
Mercers, Tailors, Poets, Booke-bynders,  
Grocers, Curriers, Goldsmiths, goldfiners,  
Silkemen, Botchets, Drapers, Dray-men,  
Courtiers. Carters, Churchmen, Lay-men,  
Midwives, Apple-wives, Cheapefide Ladies,  
Old Beldames, and young Tiffany Babies,  
Scotch-bums, red Waistcoats, fine Pawne-wenches,  
In the same rooms, on self same benches,  
Crowned All together: All Drink, All Pay,  
Why then should any give the way?  
Rooms here are by Reversion got,  
As Offices, so men win the Pot.  
Both Pray and Pay, and wait, and woo,  
That Four may buy, what goes for two,  
Yet 'tis refused. The Sexton scorns  
To budge to a Bright. All stay their Tourns  
As at the Conduit or the Mill,  
And nothing 's s heard, but Fill, Fill, Fill,  
Bespeaking one another's Cups.  
As men do Chairs in Barber's shops  
On Christmas gives. A hundred laps  
Held up for cakes; As many caps  
Put off for Ale, whose juice embalmes  
Their Brows 'tis begged, as 'twere an alms,  
Yet all hold Silver up, and cry  
Take mine, (as at the Lottery.)  
Drawer, need not bawl Anon, Anon,  
Each Guest for his own Drink does run,  
Brave men turn Tapsters, Women Caters,  
For Ten that sit, there's Forty Waiters,  
French-hose, and Velvet Caps being proud  
Sometimes, i'th' hen-roost close to crowd.  
O stranger! what makes the Cripple here?  
When strongest legs can hardly bear  
Those that stand on them, if they stand  
But stiffly too 't in Pimlyco Land:  
Yet even that Wretch, (that halts on wood)  
All hoe five furlongs off it stood,  
Swears he'll lympe too 't, and too 't he goes,  
And being there, his false legs does lose.  
After him, gropes the Blind, and cries,  
Pimlico drink not out mine Eyes.  
Pimlyco does so please the Mouth,  
They come from East, West, North, South.  
O Thou, (the Pimlyconian Host,)  
Had thy Head been but like that Post,  
Which Scores what Ale and Cakes come in,  
Of greater Reckoning hadst thou been.  
Hadst thou had Brains, but like to some,  
To know what Weather was to come  
Byth' Almanac; thou hadst changed thy luck,  
Thy hind ere this had proved a Buck.  
Alack! thy wits are lost in Brewing;  
thouart grown stark mad with too good Doings  
Thou, only criest, Who pays the Shot?  
(When the Main Matters are forgot.)  
Thou Barmy Fool, at last grow wise,  
Build thy House round with Galleries,  
Like to a Playhouse; for thy Ale  
(be't bad, be't good, be't new, be 't Stale)  
Brings thee good Audience: from each shore,  
Ships of Fools launch, to seek thy Door;  
Ere prodigal Gulls sail back again,  
Thei'll pay thee money to come in:  
Keep then thy wife and thou, the doors,  
Let those within wipe out the Scores.  
Yet (O vile counsel!) why do I labour  
To have a Christian wrong his neighbour  
Each afternoon thy House being full,  
Makes Fortune blind, or Gelds The Bull.  
No, no, (thou Pimlyconian Brewer)  
Thy Castle of Comfort stands so sure,  
(Moated with Ale, and walled with cakes)  
though whirlwinds blow, it never shakes;  
Therefore it needs no reparations,  
No rampires, no Fortifications,  
But only Shot: Charge them Pell Mell,  
Let Pimlyco Ordinance go off well;  
And Hogsdon seems a Town of war,  
Where Constables the Captains are,  
Leading to Stocks (with Bills and Stanes)  
Whole troops of drunken Whores and Knaves,  
Who (though they cannot stand) yet go,  
Swearing, Zounds hay brave Pimlyco.  
You therefore that do trade in Cans,  
(Virginians, or Cracovians,)  
You that in whole pots drink your bane,  
Lying dead-druncke at The Labor in vain:  
You Apron-men, that weekly get  
By your hard labour and your sweat,  
Silver (earned dear, but honestly)  
Enough to find your Family,  
Now leave those places (named before)  
Or if you'll Drink, maintain a Score,  
But let your Wages (in one Sum)  
Be wisely saved till Sunday come,  
But (with it) buy, nor bread, nor broth,  
Nor house, nor hose, nor shoe, nor cloth,  
For food let wife and children Die,  
Suck Pimlyco down merrily,  
There dance and spend the day in laughter,  
'tis meat and drink a whole week after.  
You Ballad-Singers, that do live  
On half penny alms that Idiots give,  
In every Street (to drunken Notes)  
Set out your villainous yelping throats,  
That through all ears your Tunes may flow,  
With praises of Browne Pimlyco.  
You Poets that of Helicon boast,  
Whose morning's draft without a toast  
You always take, but ne'er 〈◊〉 so,  
Coming to tipple Pimlyco,)  
O be more wise, and scorn that liquor,  
Drink this, which makes your Muses quicker,  
Of This, three full Pots (I assure ye)  
Leaves you stark drunk with braver fury.  
You that plough up the salt Sea-flood,  
To fetch from far, the Grapes dear blood.  
And with Outlandish drinks confound  
And mad the Brain that is most sound:  
Your very Ships going never so steady,  
(With that moist Freight) but ever giddy  
And reeling (as an ominous Sign,  
That Those must reel, who Trade in Wine,  
From Shore to Shore what need you sail,  
When Pimlyco breeds such Dragon-Ale?  
You that of men dear reckonings make,  
Yet at the Bar (for what they Take)  
Arraign them, Charging them to Stand,  
Till they have all held up The Hand:  
Down with your Bushes, and your Grates,  
Draw yourselves thorough the City Gates,  
To Sack the Walls of Pimlyco,  
Which day by day more strong do grow,  
And will in time (to their own Trench)  
Drive back both Spanish Wines and French:  
Or if no Shot can batter down  
This Pimlyco Fort; then, in the Town,  
And in the fields and Common way,  
Pitch Tents, and openly display  
Your Banners (drawn with Red and White)  
Under those colours Men will fight  
Till they can stand, else All are lost,  
And cut off by the Pimlyco Host.  
Here therefore sound, Anon, Anon,  
For the main Army here comes on.  
O you that (every Moon) hold Feasts,  
(And in the True-love-knot are Guests)  
And do with Wreaths your Temples crown,  
(At Lothbury, and at Horsey-downe,)  
Let those Dear Fleshly-Meetings go,  
And Bathe your Brains in Pimlyco.  
You that by Engine no Wheels can force  
Tides to run back and turn their Course,  
Whose wits in water still do Dive,  
(O, if you wish that Trades should thrive,)  
With loud voice to the City speak,  
That she her Conduit-Heads would break,  
And only build One Conduit-head.  
At Pimlyco, that through pipes of Lead.  
The precious Stream may be connayd,  
And craftsmen so at home be stayed.  
You Bawds, you Pandars, Punks and whores.  
That are chalked upon Alehouse scores,  
You that lay Petticoats, Gowns, and Smocks  
To pawn for drinks to cure the Pox,  
At Pimlyco some will take them from you,  
To drink there then, shall best become you.  
Of Aley-Ilands there are more,  
(Some new discovered, some before)  
But neither th'Old nor New of name,  
Can equal Pimlyco in fame.  
Of these strange islands, Malta is one,  
Malta does Border close upon  
The Continent of Pimlyco,  
And by her Streams more rich does grow,  
On Pimlyco Seas when 'tis fowl weather,  
That no Ship can get in; then hither,  
(To Malta) fly they with swollen Sail,  
To buy the jew of Malta's Ale.  
Thy Knights (O Malta) now do flourish,  
Pimlyco their renown does nourish,  
All fealty therefore they doowe  
And Service to guard Pimlyco.  
Tripoli from the Turk was taken,  
But Tripoli is again forsaken;  
What News from Tripoli? Would you know?  
Christians fly thence to Pimlyco.  
eyebright, (so famed of late for Beer)  
Although thy Name be numbered heir,  
Thine ancient Honours now run low;  
Thou art struck blind by Pimlyco.  
The Newfound Land, is now grown stale.  
Few to Terceras islands sayie;  
The once well-mand, 〈◊〉 Ship of Hull,  
That spread a sail, proud, stiff, and full,  
Leaks oft, and does at Anchor lie:  
Nay, even St. Christopher walks dry.  
Not half so many Christians (now)  
Their knees before his White-crosse bow.  
Run, (Redcap) Run, amongst the Rest,  
Thou art named last, that once wert best,  
But (Redcap) now thy Wool is worn,  
By Pimlyco is Redcap shorn.  
Our weary Muse (here) leaps to Shore,  
On these rough Seas she Sails no more,  
This Voyage made shèe (for your sakes,)  
Spending thus much in Ale and Cakes.  
FINIS.