SHROVETYDE  

SHROVETYDE.  
Jou that hate Fasting, Dearth, and sta●ling leans,  
spits bright hanged up, and Teeth and Platters cleanness  
Behold your Champion Shrovetide in this fray  
Would murder Lent, and every fasting day.   

Fat Shrovetide, mounted on a good fat ox,  
Supposed that Lent was mad, or caught a fox,  
Armed Cap a pea from head unto the heel,  
A Spit, his longsword, somewhat worse than steel  
(Sheathed in a fat pig, and a piece of pork)  
His bottles filled with Wine, well stopped with Cork  
The two plump Capons, fluttering at his Crupper,  
And's shoulders laced with sausages for Supper,  
The Gridir'n (like a well strung Instrument)  
Hung at his back, and for the tournament  
His Helmet is a brass Pott, and his flag  
A cook's foul Apron, which the wind doth wag,  
Fixed to a broom, thus bravely he did ride  
And boldly to his foe, he thus replyde.   

What art thou, thou lean jawde anatomy  
All spirit (for I no flesh upon thee spy)  
Thou bragging piece of air and smoke, that prat'st  
And all good fellowship and friendship hat'st,  
You'll turn our feasts to fasts, when, can you tell  
Against your spite, we are provided well.  
Thou sayst thou'lt ease the cooks, the Cooks could wish  
Thee boiled or broiled with all thy frothy fish,  
For one fish dinner takes more pains and cost  
Then three of flesh, baked, roast or boiled, almost,  
You'll take away our plays, our sports and pleasure  
And give the butcher's time for ease and leisure,  
Alas poor scab, how barren are thy hopes  
The Fencers, bears, and dancers on the Ropes,  
Is manly sport, or lawless recreation  
Which all thy seven weeks' time, are still in fashion,  
The truth is, thou aswagest few men's hunger  
And hast no faithful friend but the Fishmonger.  
There's jittle danger to attend on me  
When men are drowned at Sea to furnish thee,  
Pease pottage, and dried beans, by proof we find  
Offends and fills men with unwholesome wind,  
And ere I'll be a slave and pinch my maw  
I'll break all Proclamation, rule and Law,  
we'll fill our Tubs with powdered flesh, beside  
By licenced Butchers we will be supplied  
With fresh meat; so hungry Lent adieu,  
We are resolved to feed in spite of you.   
FINIS.   

LONDON: Printed by M. S. for Thomas Jenner, and are to be sold at his Shop at the South Entrance of the royal Exchange, 1660.