Much ado, about Nothing:  
A Song made of Nothing, the newest in Print:  
He that seriously minds it, shall find All things in't.  
To the Tune of, Which nobody can deny.  

HINC LUCEM ET POCULA SACRA- ALMA MATER CANTA BRIGIA   printer's or publisher's device  

I'll sing you a Sonnet. that ne'er was in Print,  
'Tis truly and newly come out of the Mint,  
But I'll tell you before hand you'll find Nothing in't;  
That any man can deny   

On Nothing I think, on Nothing I Write,  
'Tis Nothing I Covet, yet Nothing I slight,  
And I care not a Pin, if I get Nothing by't,  
'Tis all one to me, cry I.   

Fire, Air, Earth and Water, Beast, Birds, Fish and Men,  
Did start out of Nothing a Chaos, a Den:  
And all things shall turn into Nothing again:  
Which nobody can deny.   

'tis Nothing sometimes that makes many things hit,  
As when a Fool amongst Wise-men doth silently sit,  
A Fool that says nothing may pass for a Wit:  
Wise Solomon sound it so.   

That one Man doth love, is another Man's loathing,  
This Blade loves a quick thing, & that loves a slow thing  
And both in the very coclusion loves Nothing:  
So fickle are Humours now.   

Your Lad that makes love to a very fine smooth-thing,  
And thinks to obtain her with sighing and soothing,  
Doth frequently make much ado about Nothing:  
Experience finds it true.   

At last, when his Patience and Purse is decayed,  
He may to the Bed of a Whore be betrayed;  
But she that hath nothing must needs be a Maid,  
For she can have Nothing to do.   

Your Slasing and Clashing, and Flashing of Wit,  
Doth start out of Nothing, but Fancy and Fit;  
'Tis little or Nothing to what hath been Writ,  
There's Nothing invented new.   

When we first together by the Ears did fall,  
Than something got Nothing, and Nothing got All,  
From Nothing it came, unto Nothing it shall:  
This Kingdom hath found it true.   

That party that Sealed to a Covenant in haste,  
Who made King and Kingdom, and Churches lie wast,  
Their Project and All came to Nothing at last:  
'Tis well we have found it so.   

They raised an Army of Horse and of Foot,  
To tumble down Monarchy, Branch and Root.  
They thundered and plundered, but nothing would do't,  
And vive le Roy, cry I.   

The Organ and altar, and Ministers clothing,  
In Presbiter-Jack did beget such a loathing,  
That he must needs set up a Petty-new-Nothing:  
Which Loyalty did deny.   

And when he had robbed us in Sanctified Clothing,  
And perjured the People, by Faithing and Trothing,  
At last he was catched and all came to Nothing:  
I wish they had had their due.   

In several Factions we Quarrel and Brawl,  
Dispute and contend, and to fighting we fall,  
But I'll lay All to Nothing, that Nothing wins All,  
Conclusion will make it true.   

When War and Rebellion, and Plundering grows,  
The Mendicant-man is the freest from Foes,  
For he is most happy hath Nothing to lose:  
We frequently find it true.   

Brave Caesar, and Pompey, and Great Alexander,  
Whom Armies did follow as Goose follows Gander,  
Have Nothing to say to an Action of Slander:  
Which nobody can endure.   

The wisest great Prince, were he never so stout,  
Could he conquer the World, and give Mankind a Rout,  
Did bring Nothing in, nor shall carry Nothing out,  
There's Nothing that can be truer.   

Old Nol that did Rise up to High-thing, from Low-thing  
By Brewing Rebellion, and Nicking and Frothing,  
In seven Years distance, was All-things and Nothing:  
Which every Man doth know.   

Dick, (Oliver's Heir) that pitiful Slow-thing,  
UUho once was Invested with Purple Clothing,  
Now stands for a Cipher, and a Cipher is Nothing,  
King Dick he hath Nothing to do.   

If King-killers are Excluded from Bliss,  
Old Bradshaw (that féels the Reward on't by this)  
Had better been Nothing, than what now he is:  
The Devil will have his due.   

Blind Colonel Hewson, that lately did Crawl,  
To a lofty degree, from a low cobbler-stall,  
Did bring Awl to Nothing, when Awl came to All,  
With Oakey and Baxter too.   

Your Gallant, that lives by fine Meat, Drink, & Clothing  
UUho was, th'other day a pitiful Low-thing,  
Pays Butcher, and Baker, and Draper with Nothing,  
The City doth find it true.   

The nimble tongued Lawyer that Pleads for his Pay,  
When Death doth Arrest him and Carry him away,  
At the General Bar, will have Nothing to say;  
To you, nór you, nor you.   

If any here Tax me with weakness of UUit,  
And say, That on Nothing, I Nothing have UUrit:  
I shall answer, Ex nihilo, nihil fit,  
Of Nothing, comes Nothing, ye know.   

Yet let his Discretion be never so tall,  
This very word Nothing, shall give it a fall,  
For in UUriting of Nothing, I Comprehend All,  
That is in Creation made.   

Let every Man give the Poet his Due,  
'Cause than 'twas with him, as now it's with you;  
He Studied it, when he had Nothing to do:  
For Nothing was then his Trade.   

This very UUord Nothing, if took the right way,  
May prove advantageous; For, What would you say,  
If the Uinter should tell you, There's Nothing to Pay?  
As good as if all were Paid.    

London, Printed for T. Vere, at the sign of the Cock in St. johns-street.