DEATH in a New DRESS: OR Sportive Funeral ELEGIES.  
Commemorating the renowned Lives and lamented Deaths of these Eminent Personages, 

Robin the Annyseed-water Seller.  
Martin Parker the famous Poet.  
Archee the late King's Jester.  
The Gentlewoman that so often travailed up Holborn-Hill upon her Bum, etc.    
WITH 
 The Celebration of some (harmless but pleasant Healths) hitherto not in fashion: And other Drollerical Crotchets, very delightful.  
By S. F.  
LONDON, Printed for ISAAC PRIDMORE at the Sign of the Falcon near the New Exchange, 1656.   

DEATH in a new DRESS: OR Sportive Funeral ELEGIES: Commemorating the Renowned Lives, and Lamented Deaths of these Eminent Personages, 

Robin the Annyseed-water Seller.  
Martin Parker the famous Poet.  
Archee the late King's Jester.  
And the Gentlewoman that so often travailed up Holborn-Hill upon her Bum, etc.    
With other pleasant Crotchets.  

On the Death of Annyseed-water Robin.  
AN ELEGY.  

HAve I not waited long enough; five years,  
And yet no Heliconian Quack appears  
In print, to manifest his mighty skill?  
This Theme would seat him on the Muse's Hill  
Higher than Phoebus' self; Ye glorious 
* Samuel Smithson. Humphrey Crouch. Lawrence Price.  three  
Who grasp the Poles of Star-crowned Poesy;  
Has some Cask-piercing 
† Drawer Smal-beer.  Youth poisoned your wine  
With wicked Lethe? Did you ever dine  
On Turnep-tops, without or Salt, or Butter,  
That amongst all your Canzonets, or clutter  
You failed to mention this deceased Robin,  
It seems you ne'r-quaft Nectar in his Noggin,  
As I have done; then may my Verse be mighty  
Spirited by his potent Aquavitae:  
Was not thy voice (dear Robin) very sweet?  
Wert thou not wondered at in every Street?   

Anyseed-water,  
Water fine;  
Water that passes  
Ale or Wine.   

Thy tongue took every man (for 'twas a charm)  
But then that wooden Vessel on thy Arm  
Was more magnetic, 'twas a Pestilence Can  
Can put the Staggers on the Puritan;  
Yet Ananias Goggle-eyes would swear it,  
By Yea and Nay, Brother I can't forbear it;  
This is some Son of Belial, (and his Punk)  
Who has in charge to make the godly drunk:  
How many whim-crowned she's (the chaste, chaste Wives  
Of witty Citizens) did owe their lives  
To thy Spagirick Water, when the 
* Fits of the Mother.  Qualm  
Can not be laid by Spell, or Hopkins Psalm,  
Drench her but with a Cup of Robbin's Nectar,  
And next Morn send her to St. Anthlin's Lecture,  
She shall do well; How many aged Sibyls  
Tasting thy Stream, would have their Quirks and Quibbles,  
Dancing devoutly, who some hours before  
Sat like Stone Statues o'er a Portal door;  
Nor wert thou framed (as I myself can tell)  
Without the Adjunct of a miracle;  
Problem of Sexes; Natures Jumble; Adam  
And Eve conglutinated; Sir, or Madam;  
Harry, or Madge; a Knight and Lady Errand,  
With Rem in Re, and double Badge for warrant;  
A Philip and Mary; thou couldst do  
The office of the Man and Woman too:  
Rare Enigmatick Robin, when grown great  
With-child thyself, thou couldst perform the feat;  
Which gives the world Inhabitants, so we  
(We must confess) are doubly bound to thee:  
But this (though great) is not the chiefest matter,  
Where, now, shall we attain such heavenly water;  
(Such Chemical Nepenthe) that has made  
More haughty Beggars of the Rhyming trade  
Then Helicon itself; while thou didst give  
Thy Vessel vent, John Looks himself did live,  
And learned Tailor played upon his Lyre,  
(With happy Ale and Wildings) by the fire:  
Weep then (with me) all you that had the hap  
To taste of that which flowed from Robbin's Tap:  
O partial Fate! that which did others save,  
Can not protect our Robin from the Grave.    

HEALTHS.  
HEre's a Health to that Servingman ne'er had's headbare,  
And a Health to that Poet, whose cloak was ne'er threadbare.  
Here's a Health to that Punk, never took Money,  
Though proffered it for the use of her—  
Here's a Health to that Cook, that ne'er liked his fingers,  
To the late Cost-wold-Games, and the Clerkenwel Ringers.  
Here's a Health to that Player that never was proud,  
And to a Billingsgate Scold that never talked loud.  
Here's a Health to that Lecher that never was lustful,  
And to that Grandee of State that never was distrustful.  
Here's a Health to that Host that loves to be Scoring,  
And to that Roister that never loved Roaring.  
Here's a Health to that Captain that never drew Sword,  
And a Catchpole that's honest in's deed and his word.   

On the Death of the most Renowned Poet, Mr. Martin Parker.  
An ELEGY.  

HOw has it happened (speak ye tardy Nine)  
That glorious Parker (he whose every line  
Deserves a Panegyre) has all this while  
Slept like a Slave, beneath his Funeral Pile,  
And no new Johnson, Dun, or learned Gill,  
To Dub the distillations of his Quill,  
To Canonize his Canzonets, which are  
Yet extant on each Market-day, or Fair.  
Spirit of Orpheus; Archimedes skill  
Would fail (should he bring in his tedious Bill)  
To number all thy curious Canticles,  
Thy Octaves, Epiceds, and Madrigals,  
Which (as was used of old) did kindly greet  
The people's ears, as they did pass the street;  
Sung to the pleasant Treble and the Base,  
The Small or Great, the Sharp or Flat, to grace  
Thy sublime Sonnets; was not every Song  
Of thine applauded by the thirsty throng,  
So (as to Thracian Orpheus) Trees did nod  
When thou wert worried by the Delphic god;  
And Stones did move; nay, gave a vocal sound,  
Till with loud laughter every verse was crowned.  
Here thou wert Pindar, Alceus, Moschus, Bion  
Apollo's loved one, and the Muse's Lion:  
But these were but thy sports; some minutes spent  
In Mimmick state, to palliate merriment:  
Let us behold thee in thy Germane Story,  
There thou art Lucan, while thy Muse (all glory)  
Does sing the Austrian Ruins in a tone  
More strong then Stentors, with O hone! O hone!  
Sayest thou so Silius; here are other things,  
The Deeds of Pacolet, and Pagan Kings:  
Oh! in what stately Verse thou didst discourse on  
The Doughty deeds of Valentine and Orson;  
Dull Prose before, and fit for Boys and Girls,  
Thine for the solace of great Lords and Earls.   

Speak ye nine Sisters, for ye only know  
Whence did this sprightly sparkling Torrent flow;  
How has our Parker above all inspired  
His Lines so much cried up, so much desired?  
I have't; He always bathed his Beak in Ale,  
Toping whole Tubs off, like some thirsty Whale;  
Phoebus and Hermes gave their joint consent  
Their Priest should keep a Tippling Tenement:  
Martin might well do more than Goffe. or Graunger,  
Who (like a Horse) fed at the Muse's Manger.  
Hyperion's Host is sunk beneath his Barrels,  
Cease then your hom-bred Feuds, & stint your quarrels  
Ye that pretend to be his Heirs; in Sooth-la  
Ye do dishonour the deceased Youth-la;  
All that ye ought to mind are Sighs and Tears,  
Deathbeds and Funerals, and Scrivener's ears;  
Weep, weep, until the floodgates of your eyes  
Do drown the world for Parker's Obsequies.    

EXECRATIONS.  
A Curse on that Coxcomb that never spends penny,  
But he inwardly weeps for the loss of his money;  
So, a curse on that Courtesan never is merry,  
But when she is feasted with Pheasant and Sherry:  
And the same curse attend him refuses to pledge it,  
When the Health deserves honour, and Truth does allege it.  
A curse on that Cockatrice, and her hot Rump,  
That at one single vie gives a clap and a Thump.  
A Pox of that Poet ne'er tipples Canary,  
His Purse over full, and his Pate over wary:  
With forty five curses on him that denies  
A fair Lady's Option, when longing she lies.   

On the Death of Archee the late King's JESTER.  
An ELEGY.  
GIve room ye Ghosts of Tarlton, Scoggin, Summer,  
Minerva's Masquers, and the Muse's Mummers;  
Puppets for Potent Kings to play withal,  
(Part Orthodox, and part Apocryphal;)  
Great ARCHEE comes (with Hobby-Horse and Tabor)  
To crack a merry Jest with Sir john Swabber:  
We that were made only to eat up Corn,  
And till we die, ne'er know why we were born,  
Are our own Zanies, we can sing Ho, Ho,  
And slaver like to Fools in Follo;  
Outdo jack adam's in his frantic fits,  
And seem most solid when we want our Wits.  
But Kings are vexed with real cares; each day  
As it dilates the height of Sovereign sway,  
So it Augments the horror; ARCHEES Coat  
And Cap will tell ye he's a man of Note:  
Great Charles (whose wisdom all the world admires)  
Would warm himself by ARCHEES witty fire:  
How then has thy great name slept all this while,  
And no Virgilian Quill, in haughty style  
Seating thy Fame on Stilts (with golden Pen)  
And thou walked over the heads of other men?  
Let not thy Manes mourn, that I dare venture  
To stretch thy strong-nerved Fame upon the Tenter,  
And tell the world how much thy Jests do merit,  
Read but thy Book; they'll find thy glorious spirit  
Did soar as far above the wit of Scoggin  
As a Horse-hoof does differ from a Noggin:  
That Medley of the men of Gotam (surely  
For matter and for manner penned most purely)  
Is but a spurious Sprig; but thine a Tree  
Of Knowledge; we may pluck and taste of thee,  
And never know our nakedness; thy crime  
Most learned Laud, must brook the Jerk of Time  
For bringing our dear ARCHEES in disgrace,  
Who rent'st his Coat off, outing him his place  
With dreadful Obloquy (for kicks are things  
Are hardly brooked by Jesters and by Kings)  
How like a Martyr didst thou bear these wrongs,  
The frowns of Courtiers, and the forked tongues  
Of Antlered Citizens? If Patience be  
A sublime Virtue, there belongs to thee  
A Triple-crown of glory, thou dost rest  
For some few years, for (sure) thou didst in Jest;  
And we (no doubt) shall know thee once again  
When ere we have a King to Rule and Reign.   

HEALTHS.  
HEre's a Health to ' that Tapster that never froathed Can,  
To that Virgin that marries, but not to know man:  
To that Pimp and that Bawd that never took Fee,  
To that Usuring Miser that loves to be free:  
To that Priest that in Pulpit never told lie  
(If a Presbyter Jack, or an American Spy:)  
A Health to that Farmer that sighs when Corn's dear,  
To that Pryn and that Bastwick that never lost Ear:  
To that Houns-ditch Broker that hates to be Knavish;  
To him that haunts Whores, yet loathes to be lavish.   

On the Gentlewoman that so often travailed up Holborn-Hill upon her Bum.  
AN ELEGY.  
THis is a Task indeed, and will require  
A large Torch lighted with Phaebean fire,  
To sing thy worth (rare Woman) who wert once-one  
Fit for the Muse of Fletcher, Dun, or Johnson:  
How then shall I sufficiently express  
Thy fulgent figure in its native Dress,  
Who wert thy Sex's miracle? They Jump  
On Cork-heeled Stilts, but thou on Hand & Rump  
Didst travail 'bout the Town, each leap of thine  
Would puzzle Spencer (though inspired with wine)  
Thy Hands were armed with wood, thy Bum with leather  
That might defy the dint of dirty weather;  
A Vaulting Sibyl; when thou wouldst dispense  
With time, how heavenly was thy Eloquence?  
What moving Oratory, that would pull  
Pity from Thiefs, make Misers merciful?  
A general gravity thou still didst fling  
About thee, to our general wondering.  
So (to the honour of the Commonwealth)  
We ne'er were merry till we drank thy Health,  
Which when gone round (with strictest celebration,  
Being Olympic in its operation)  
Caused the Boon Delphic God himself appear,  
Vowing to keep his Bacchanalias there:  
Thou ne'er wert named but with a general hum,  
Mention the Lady, that upon her Bum  
Jigged it up Holborn-Hill, each head was bare,  
Though thatched with Beaver, Periwigged with hair  
New purchased; and as much Devotion seen  
As they had memorised some Eastern Queen:  
Shall we then suffer such a Saint to fall,  
And not erect some rich Aescuriall?  
Though thou wert not embalmed (like other Slurs)  
But wert interred (in private) with thy Guts,  
Didst want a Hearse (by sable Steeds drawn on)  
A Herald, and a gilt Escocheon  
Thou shalt not miss that Fame that has been common  
(Thank biased Fate) to many a worse woman:  
And while the world lasts, thou shalt sit like Puss  
In Majesty; thy name adored by us.   

EXECRATIONS.  
LEt the Fiend cease him that steals away  
Just when he knows the Reckoning's to pay;  
So him that makes it his pride and delight  
To Fautorize Feuds, but dares not to fight:  
The same curse on him ne'er speaks as he thinks,  
That cherishes Coxcombs, and talks as he drinks:  
So him that will censure before he does know it,  
Or that may have a Fortune, and yet will forgo it.  
A halter take him that hates to hear sense,  
Or that numbers his friends, as he tells over his pence.  
Hell cease her (or else some place that is worse)  
That loves a man merely for's Back and his Purse:  
The like hap to him (who dreading no crimes)  
Will be any thing that shall pleasure the Times.   
FINIS