ITER BOREALE HIS COUNTRY CLOWN: OR, THE Country Scourged for their Barbarism TO THE CITIZENS.  

NOT a hard Bed i'th' Country to procure?  
These Citizens are pestilent fellows sure  
Varlets! And void of Christian concern,  
Had they been Gypsies they had lain i'th' Barn,  
But see what comes on't; they that left enough  
Good Beds at home they are turned Hedgbirds now.  
What evil Star guided you to this Rabble,  
You can't adore your Saviour, not i'th' Stable.  
There Argus waits so to waylay a Stranger,  
He must a wise Man be that gets to the Manger.  
Rude savages did on Paul's shipwreck take  
Much more compassion, and a Bonfire make:  
But, let a Man but look, as from the City,  
And, though a Brother, fear has swallowed pity.  
There's Corn enough in Egypt one would think,  
Yet double money can't buy Bread and Drink,  
The rustic scum the generous City slights  
And Israel crowches to the Gibeonites:  
There is no Famine, but a foolish dread,  
Yet money ●●nnot purchase mouldy Bread:  
Thus among Thiefs fell the unhappy Man,  
But th' Country yields not a Samaritan;  
Yet, say some one had full of mercy been,  
It were in vain to bring him to an Inn:  
Especially with two pence, for I saw't,  
We could not drink at Door once for a groat.  
And yet I understand their fear was such  
Not that we brought too little, but too much;  
Eat no more Pigs, and Geese with my consent,  
And let 'em hang themselves to pay their Rent.  
'Slight but a while the Capon, and the Conie,  
The Landlord than may take Eggs for his Mony.  
But now keep off, whence come ye pray, from London?  
I and my Wife and Family are undone;  
He starts, and his hair stairs, than back he flies,  
Look what a Basilisk lurks in his Eyes,  
Stand off thou ghastly terror to Beholders,  
Away with that Death's head upon his Shoulders;  
The Grave expects thee, and methinks I see  
The very Worms how they crawl after thee.  
Your carriage to the dead so barbarous was  
That they scarce got the burial of an Ass.  
But we may cross your Brief for it, when you  
Burn your old Barns that we may build ye new:  
Your Courtesy from July to September  
Shall be requited with a Pray Remember.   

If this be the Event, let me fall then  
Into the hands of God, and not of Men;  
Of Men? I am mistaken it appears;  
Of Wolves and Tigers, Panthers, Praetors, Bears,  
Mastiffs, hold there my passion is misled;  
They're Country Curs, hang ●m, not so right bred,  
Bumkins, and Boobies, every mother's son  
Is base than the ground he goes upon;  
Their sordid feet are shod with wooden Clogs,  
Job would have scorned to set 'em with his Dogs.  
What shall I say? they are a senseless stock  
Of sandaled Jews from top to bottom block;  
Natures rough cast, and Chaos like enorm;  
Cubs that are scarcely yet licked into form.  
They are (as wittily the Poet writes)  
In Understanding very Adamites.  
Next Lord Mayor's day brings up the gapeing Clown,  
But we will hiss and hoot him out of Town,  
And make the Rustics hast so to be gone,  
That their Hubnails shall fire at every stone.  
As to a Citizen midst this abuse  
T'have bought a Farm had been a good excuse:  
Or far, or near, or wheresoever be it  
Never had he so fit a time to see it;  
Whilst such as had no money, man, or woman  
They found I fear, short Commons on the Common.  
Whom now we point at, saying as they pass,  
Nebuchadnezzar's newly come from grass.  
I could, but time won't let me further go,  
And so I bid thee Farewell, Hait Ge Ho.    

London, Printed for the Author, 1665.