The Time's abuses: OR, Mulled-sack his grievances briefly expressed, Sewing the causes doth his mind molest, But ye he merry makes, and dedicates This Son in love to all which baseness hates.  

To the ●une of, Over and under.  
 

ATtend my Masters and give ear,  
whilst here I do relate  
The base injurious slanders  
are thrown on me in hate,  
My wrongs and great abuses  
so commonly are known,  
As in in a Song to right my wrong,  
shall instantly be shown.  
They call me fuddling Mulled-sack,  
when drink I have got none,  
Cannot they look to their business,  
and let Mulled-sack alone.   

If I sometimes a pot or so  
do drink for recreation,  
My reckoning paid, a way I go,  
and follow my vocation,  
Not any good man grieving  
offensive for to be  
By rooking or deceiving,  
from that my thoughts are free,  
They call me fuddling Mulled-sack,  
when drink I have got none,  
Cannot they think on the black jack,  
and let Mulled-sack alone.   

As I along the streets do sing,  
the people flocke about me,  
No harm to any one I mean,  
yet féeringly they flout me,  
The Bar-boyes and the Tapsters,  
leave drawing of their Beer,  
And running forth, in haste they cry,  
see where Mulled-sack comes here.  
Thus am I féered by them,  
though harm I do them none,  
Cannot they look to their small khans,  
and let Mulled-sack alene.   

The féering cunning Courtesan,  
and rooking roaring Boy,  
Which day and night do take delight  
in drunkenness to joy,  
They with their Pimps and Panders,  
Decoys, and cheating Knaves,  
Which runs to whores & drinks & roars  
and simple men deceives.  
They have no grace to guide well,  
and conscience they have none,  
Cannot they take heed of Bride well,  
and let Mulled-sack alone.   

The Glutton rich that feedeth  
of Beef and Mutton store,  
And hates the poor that needeth  
which goes from door to door,  
And will not spend his money,  
but for the love of drink,  
And grieves to give a penny,  
so well he loves his chink.  
Too many such alive is,  
of whom I am sure he's one,  
Cannot he remember Dives,  
and let Mulled-sack alone.    

The second part. To the same tune.  
 

TEarme-frotting Petty-soggers,  
which are so fine and nice,  
Will drink if they meet rightly,  
a cup of Ale and Spice,  
Yet must they take their Chamber,  
before they do begin,  
And if they can but hide it,  
they think it is no sin.  
When I in the streets walk open,  
to the view of every one,  
Cannot they look to their Clients,  
and let Mulled Sack alone.   

The féering fleering Coxcomb,  
with hands behind his back  
All day, which stands from morntil night  
to cry what do you lack,  
With scoffing and with taunting,  
will by the sleeve me pull;  
What is't you'll buy he'll to me cry,  
yet like a brainless gull.  
He'll cast on me a scornful look,  
though harm I do him none,  
Cannot he look to his Shop-book,  
and let Mulled-sack alone.   

The Tailor's saucy apprentices,  
as I do pass along,  
They at my head will cast their shreds,  
though I do them no wrong,  
The saying old hath oft been told,  
it plain doth verify,  
Poor and proud still Tailor like,  
for they most féeringly  
Do call me fuddling Mulled-sack,  
though drink I have got none,  
Cannot they keep their fingers true,  
and let Mulled-sack alone.   

Also the féering Tripe-wives,  
which Puddings sell and Souse,  
Cries there goes fuddling Mulled-sack,  
doth wine and beer carouse,  
And with disdainful speeches,  
having no cause at all,  
Will taunt and scoff and léer and laugh,  
and basely me miscall.  
And calls me fuddling Mulled-sack,  
though I am no such one,  
Cannot she scrape well her greaste tripes  
and let Mulled-sack alone.   

The Clownish country Carter,  
will like wise with a fear,  
Point at me as I go along,  
his head being filled with beer,  
Yet for his fears I care not,  
but laughing lets him pass,  
To follow his Cart with gée, gée he,  
most like a witless Ass,  
For like a homebred Clownico,  
good manners he knows none,  
Cannot be look to his Wagon,  
and let Muld-Sack alone.   

The Bakers in the Suburbs,  
with hearts devoid of pity,  
Bread light and small they make for all,  
both Country and the City,  
And sometimes of in two penny loaf,  
of weight wants ounces three,  
As merrily I pass them by,  
they cannot let me be.  
They cali me fuddling Mulled-sack,  
when drink I have got none,  
Cannot they look to their conscience,  
and let Mulled-sack alone.    
Finis.   

London, Printed for J. Wright, dwelling in Gilt-spur-street.