WIT AND DROLLERY, JOVIAL POEMS. Never before Printed.  
By Sir J. M. Ja: s. Sir W. D. J. D. And other admirable Wits.   Nectar Ingenium. 
LONDON, Printed for NATH: BROOK, at the Angel in Cornhill, 1656.   

TO THE TRULY NOBLE Edward Pepes, Esq  
Worthy Sir,  
I Am not insensible how great my presumption is to bring one single sprig to your grove of Laurel, the most curious Manuscripts, and choicest volumes having already celebrated your Study: and which must lie upon me as a worse imputation, that I should present you with these lighter Airs, your thoughts being long since more gravely fixed. Only this makes me hope your pardon, I having followed the Instructions of those that so loved and honoured you, as that they could not permit your severer retirements from the world, to excuse you from the right of a Maecenas to these Poems. Sir, I am not ignorant how you shun these vulgar ways of being made public to the world, but it were a crime that Posterity should not find upon so eminent a record as this, which may make you rendered to future Ages, a favourer of the Muses. And therefore for my patt, I have but discharged my duty, in placing you before the best Wits of the Times, the performance of which, I count my greatest happiness next the title of  
Sir, Your most humble Servant, J. P.   

Courteous Reader,  
I Present thee with Wit and Drollery, truly calculated for the Meridian of mirth; the once exalted Scene is at this present levelled, other Poems have come forth in such throngs, that our English world is satiated with them, especially as they have been lately stuffed with reiterated Hyperboles, or else other more pitiful whining passions of Love, such as ingenuous persons, cannot have the patience continually to be afflicted with. Reader, to give thee a broad side of plain dealing, this Wit I present thee with, is such as can only be in fashion, invented purposely to keep off the violent assaults of Melancholy, assisted by the additional Engines, and Weapons of Sack and good company: as for those graver sort of people, who are contented to read old Bembo, with his Beard down to his Girdle, I wish them a good digestion of their studies; these Poems are not for their gusto, they are a Heaven higher; as jovial, as clear, and as lusty, as those that writ them; such verbal harmony, being as pleasing to the fancies, as the most delightful Airs of Music are to the ear. Not to be tedious, or to deceive the Reader with a belief of what is not, these Poems never before printed, are a collection from the best Wits, of what above 15. years since, were begun to be preserved, for mirth and friends; the fear of having some of them imperfectly set forth, hath, though unwillingly, made them common. What hath not been extent of Sir J. M. of Ja. S. of Sir W.D. of J. D. and other miraculous Muses of the Times, are here at thy Service, and as Webster at the end of his Play called the White Devil, subscribes, that the action of Perkins crowned the whole Play, so when thou viewest the Title, and readest the sign of Ben: Johnson's head, on the backside of the Exchange, and the Angel in Cornhill, where they are sold, inquire who could better furnish thee with such sparkling copies of Wit, than those that have been so long courted for them; there are two or three copies crept in among the rest, as the ordinary sort of people crowd in at the audience of an Ambassador, which may at thy discretion be permitted to stay, or be put out; though they are good, yet not to be endured, as they are old. I have no more to acquaint thee with, but that good Drollery is not so lose, or of so late an invention, but that the most serious Wits have thought themselves honoured to own them. Bidding thee farewell.  
J. P.   


The Preface to that most elaborate piece of Poetry entitled Penelope Ulysses.  
NO I protest, not that I wish the gains  
To spoil the trade of mercenary brains.  
I am indifferently bend, so, so,  
Whether I ever tell my works or no.  
Nor was't my aim when I took pen in fingers,  
To take employment from the Ballad singers.  
Nor none of these but on a gloomy day,  
My genius stepped to me, and thus 'gan say.  
Listen to me, I give you information,  
This History deserves a grave translation;  
And if comparisons be free from slanders,  
I say as well as Hero and Leander's.  
This said, I took my chair in colours wrought,  
Which at an outcry with too stools I brought.  
The stools of Dornix, which that you may know well,  
Are certain stuffs, Upholsters use to sell.  
Stuffs, said I? no, some Linsey-Wolsey-monger mixed them,  
They were not stuff nor Cloth sure, but betwixt them.  
The ward I bought them in, it was without  
Hight Faringdon, and there a greasy lout  
Bid for them shillings six, but I bid seven,  
A sum that is accounted odd, not even:  
The Crier thereat seemed to be willing,  
Quoth he there's no man better than seven shilling.  
He thought it was a reasonable price,  
So struck upon the Table, once, twice, thrice.  
My Pen in one hand, Penknife in the other,  
My Ink was good, my Paper was none other.  
So sat me down, being with sadness moved,  
To sing this new Song, sung of old by Ovid.  
But would you think, as I was thus preparing  
All in a readiness, here and there staring  
To find my implements, that the untoward Elf,  
My Muse should steal away, and hid herself?  
Just so it was, faith, neither worse then better,  
Away she run ere I had writ a Letter.  
I after her apace, and beat the Bushes,  
Rank Grass, Sirs, Ferne, and the tall banks of rushes.  
At last I found my Muse, and wots you what,  
I put her up, for lo she was at squat.  
Thou slut quoth I, hadst thou not run away,  
I had made Verses all this livelong day.  
But in good sooth, o'er much I durst not chide her,  
Lest she should run away again and hid her.  
But when my heat was o'er, I spoke thus to her;  
Why didst thou play the wag? I'm very sure  
I have commended thee above old Chaucer;  
And in a Tavern once I had a Saucer  
Of White-wine Vinegar, dashed in my face,  
For saying thou deservedst a better grace:  
Thou known that then I took a Sausage up,  
Upon the knaves face it gave such a clap,  
That he repent him that he had spoken  
Against thy Fame, he struck by the same token.  
I oft have sung thy Meteers, and sometimes,  
I laugh to set on others at thy rhymes.  
When that my Muse considered had this gear,  
She sighed so sore, it grieved my heart to hear.  
She said she had done ill, and was not blameless,  
And Polyhymnie (one that shall be nameless,  
Was present when she spoke it) and before her,  
My Muse's lamentation was the soarer.  
And then to show she was not quite unkind,  
She sounded out these strong lines of her mind.   

Here endeth the Preface, and now beginneth the Book.  
O All you cliptick spirits of the Spheres,  
That have no sense to hear, or use of cares;  
And you in number seven celestial Signs,  
That Poets have made use of in their Rhimes;  
And by which men may guests what seasons good  
To geld their Bore-pigs, or to let horse blood,  
List to my doleful glee, oh list I say,  
Unto the complaint of Penellope:  
She was a Lover, I and so was he,  
As loving unto her, as she to he.  
But mark how things were altered in a moment,  
Ulysses was a Grecian borne. I so meant  
To have informed you first; but since 'tis o'er,  
It is as well as I had done't before.  
He being as I said a Greek, there risen  
A quarrel 'twixt the Trojans and their foes;  
I mean the Grecians, whereof he was one,  
But let that pass, he was old Priam's son.  
This gallant biding where full many a mother,  
Was oft bereft of child sister and Brother.  
His Lady longing earnestly for his presence  
Writes him certain Letters whereof here was the sense.  

* Being up to the Elbows in Love.  My pretty duck, my pigsney, my Ulysses,  
Thy Wife Penellope sends a thousand kisses  
As to her hearts great joy a friendly greeting,  
Wish in thy company, but not thy meeting.  
With enemies, or fiery spirits in armour,  
The which perchance may do thee harm or  
Make thee their Prisoner, & clap on their Bolts  
And Locks upon thy legs, such as wear Colts.  
But send me word, and ere that thou want ransom,  
A man so brave, so comely and so handsome.  
I'll sell my Smock both from my back and belly,  
Ere thou want money, means or meat I tell thee.  

† Penelope ●imes to any thing (as our Author saith.)  When that Ulysses all in grief enveloped,  
Had read the true-love compliment of Penelope.  
Laid one hand on his heart, and said 'twas guilty,  
Beating the other with his Dagger hilty.  
And dolefully expressed one of the Verses,  
The which our Author in his book rehearses,  
'Tis true, quoth he, Loves troubles make me tamer.  
Res est soliciti plena timor is amor.  
When as before Ulysses' just there stood,  
A platter of pease pottage, wondrous good;  
And against that the God of Love was place,  
Made of a Marchpane, carved out of Rye past.  
To make that true, the which the proverb speaks,  
The one the Heart, the other Belly breaks.  
Penelope to glad her welcome guest,  
Resolved to have some Fiddlers at the feast.  
Amongst the various consort choosing them,  

* Where do men use to wear their Arms, but in their sleeves.  Who in their sleeves, the arms of Agamemnon  
in the next verse were, cried in a rage,  
Sing me some song made in the Iron-age.  
The Iron-age, quoth he, that used to sing,  
This to my mind the Black-smiths song doth bring.  
The Black smith quoth Ulysses and there holloweth,  
Whoop, is there a Song? let's have't: it followeth.  

SONG.  

OF all the Trades that ever I see,  
There's none to the Blacksmith compared may be,  
With so many several tools works he.  
Which no body can deny.   

The first that ever Thunderbolts made,  
Was a Cyclops of the Black-smiths trade,  
As in a learned Author is said.  
Which no body, etc.   

When thundering-like we strike about,  
The fire like Lightning flashes out,  
Which suddenly with Water we doubt.  
Which no body, etc.   

The fairest Goddess in the Skies,  
To marry with Vulcan did advise,  
And he was a Black smith grave and wise.  
Which no body, etc.   

Vulcan he to do her right,  
Did build her a Town by day and by night,  
And gave it a name which was Hammersmith height.  
Which no body, etc.   

Vulcan farther did acquaint her,  
That a pretty estate he would appoint her,  
And leave her Seacole-lane for a jointure:  
Which no body, etc.   

And that no enemy might wrong her,  
He built her a fort you'd wish no stronger,  
Which was the lane of Iron-monger,  
Which no body, etc.   

Smithfield he did cleanse from dirt,  
And sure there was great reason for't,  
For there he meant she should keep her Court.  
Which no body, etc.   

But after in a good time and tide,  
It was by the Blacksmith rectified,  
To the honour of Edmund Iron-side.  
Which no body, etc.   

Vulcan after made a Train,  
Wherein the God of War was ta'en,  
Which ever since hath been called Paul's chain.  
Which no body, etc.   

The common Proverb as it is read,  
That a man must hit the nail on the head,  
Without the Blacksmith cannot be said.  
Which no body, etc.   

Another Proverb must not be forgot,  
And falls unto the Black-smiths lot,  
That a man strike while the Iron is hot.  
Which no body, etc.   

Another comes in most proper and fit,  
The Black-smiths justice is seen in it,  
When you give a man roast, and beat him with the spit.  
Which no body, etc.   

Another comes in our Black-smiths way,  
When things are safe, as old wives say,  
We have them under Lock and Key.  
Which no body, etc.   

Another that's in the Black-smiths books,  
And only to him for remedy looks,  
Is when a Man's quite off of the hooks.  
Which no body, etc.   

Another Proverb to him doth belong,  
And therefore let's do the Blacksmith no wrong,  
When a man's held hard too't buckle and thong.  
Which no body, etc.   

Another Proverb doth make me laugh,  
Wherein the Blacksmith may challenge half,  
When a reason's as plain as a Pike staff.  
Which no body, etc.   

Though your Lawyers travel both near and far,  
And by long pleading, a good cause may mar,  
Yet your Blacksmith takes more pains at th' Bar.  
Which no body, etc.   

Though your Scrivener seek to crush and to kill,  
By his counterfeit deeds, and thereby doth ill,  
Yet your Blacksmith he may forge what he will.  
Which no body, etc.   

Though your Bankrupt Citizens lurk in their holes,  
And laugh at their Creditors and their Catchpoles,  
Yet your Blacksmith can fetch them over the Coals.  
Which no body, etc.   

Though Jockey in the Stable be never so neat,  
To look to his Nag, and prescribe him his meat,  
Yet your Blacksmith knows better how to give a heat.  
Which no body, etc.   

If any Tailor have the Itch,  
The Black-smiths Water as black as pitch;  
Will make his hands go through stitch.  
Which no body, etc.   

There's never a Slut if filth o're-smuch her,  
But owes to the Blacksmith for her leachor,  
For without a pair of Tongues there's no man will touch her.  
Which no body, etc.   

Your roaring boys who every one quails,  
Fights, domineers, swaggers and rails,  
Can never yet make the Smith eat his nails.  
Which no body, etc.   

If any Scholar be in a doubt,  
And cannot well bring his matter about,  
The Blacksmith he can hammer it out.  
Which no body, etc.   

Now if to know him you would desire,  
You must not scorn but rank him higher,  
For what he gets, is out of the fire.  
Which no body, etc.   

Now here's a good health to Black-smiths all,  
And let it go round, as round, as a ball,  
we'll drink it all off, though it cost us a fall.  
Which no body, etc.      

Loyalty confined.  

BEat on proud Billows, Bore as Blow,  
Swell curled Waves, high as Jove's roof,  
Your incivility doth show,  
That innocence is tempest proof.  
Though surly Nereus' frown, my thoughts are calm,  
Then strike affliction, for thy wounds are balm.   

That which the world miscalls a Gaol,  
A private Closet is to me,  
Whilst a good Conscience is my Bail,  
And Innocence my Liberty.  
Locks Bars and solitude together met,  
Make me no Prisoner but an Anchorit.   

I whilst I wished to be retired  
Into this private room, was turned,  
As if their wisdoms had conspired,  
The Salamander should be burned.  
Or like those sophies who would drown a Fish,  
So I am condemned to suffer what I wish.   

The Cynic hugs his poverty,  
The Pelican her wilderness,  
And 'tis the Indian's pride to be  
Naked on frozen Caucasus.  
Contentment cannot smart, Stoics we see  
Make torments easy to their Apathy.   

These Manacles upon my Arm,  
I as my Mistress' favours wear;  
And for to keep my Ankles warm,  
I have some Iron Shackles there.  
These walls are but my Garrison; this Cell  
Which men call Goal, doth prove my Citadel.   

So he that struck at Jason's ' life,  
Thinking he had his purpose sure;  
By a malicious friendly-knife,  
Did only wound him to a cure.  
Malice I see wants wit, for what is meant,  
Mischief ofttimes proves favour by th'event.   

I'm in this Cabinet locked up,  
Like some high-prized Margaret,  
Or like some great  or Pope,  
Are cloyftered up from public sight.  
Retirement is a piece of Majesty,  
And thus proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee.   

Here sin for want of food must starve,  
Where tempting objects are not seen;  
And these strong Walls do only serve,  
To keep Vice out, and keep me in.  
Malice of lates grown charitable sure,  
I'm not Committed, but I'm kept secure.   

When once my Prince affliction hath,  
Prosperity doth Treason seem;  
And for to smooth so rough a Path,  
I can learn Patience from him.  
Now not to suffer shows no Loyal heart,  
When Kings want ease, Subjects must learn to smart.   

Have you not seen the Nightingale,  
A Pilgrim koopt into a Cage,  
How doth she chant her wont tale,  
In that her narrow hermitage.  
Even than her charming melody doth prove,  
That all her boughs are trees, her Cage a grove.   

My Soul is free as the Ambient air,  
Although my bafer part's immured,  
Whilst Loyal thoughts do still repair,  
To accompany my Solitude.  
And though immured, yet I can chirp & sing,  
Disgrace to Rebels is, glory to my King.   

What though I cannot see my King,  
Either in his Person or his Coin,  
Yet contemplation is a thing,  
That renders what I have not mine.  
My King from me, what Adamant can part,  
Whom I do wear engraven on my heart?   

I am that Bird whom they combine,  
Thus to deprive of Liberty;  
But though they do my Corpse confine,  
Yet maugre hate, my soul is free.  
Although Rebellion do my body bind,  
My King can only captivate my mind.    

On Ben Jonson's Play called Magnetic Lady.  Parturiunt montes nascetur ridiculus Mus. 

IS this your Loadstone then that must attract  
Applause and Laughter at each Scene & Act?  
Is this the child of thy bedridden wit,  
And none but the Blackfriers foster it?  
If to the Fortune thou hadst sent thy Lady,  
'Mongst Prentices and Applewives it may be,  
Thy Rossy fool might have some sport begot,  
With his strange habit, and Indefinite not:  
But when as Plush and Silk, and all the wits,  
Are called to see and censure as befits.  
And if thy folly take not, then perchance  
Must hear themselves styled gentle ignorance.  
Foh; how it stinks! what general offence,  
Gives thy profaneness and gross Impudence?  
O how your friend Nat Butter ' 'gan to melt!  
When as the poorness of the plot he smelled:  
And Inigo with laughter there grew fat,  
That there was nothing worth the laughing at.  
And yet thou crazy wretch art confident,  
Belching out full-mouthed oaths with foul intent.  
Calling us Fools and Rogues, unlettered men,  
Poor narrow souls, that cannot judge of Ben.  
Yet which is worse of three shameful foils,  
The Printers must be put to farther toils.  
Whereas indeed to vindicate thy fame,  
Thou hadst better given thy Pamphlet to the flame.  
Oh what a strange prodigious year 'twill be,  
If this Play do come forth in thirty three?  
Let dooomsday rather come on New-year's Eve.  
And of your paper-plague the world bereave.  
Which plague I fear worse than a Sergeants bit,  
Worse than Infection, or an Ague fit.  
Worse than Astronomers denying lips,  
Worse than three Suns, a Comet or Eclipse:  
Or if thy learned Brother Allestre,  
Who's an Homer unto thee in Poetry;  
Should tell of rain upon St. Swithins day,  
And that should wash our harvest all away.  
As for the Press, if this Play must join to it,  
Let Thomas Purfoot, or John Trundle do it  
In such dull Characters, as for reliefs  
Of Fires and Wrecks we find in begging briefs.  
And in Cap paper let it printed be,  
Indeed Brown paper is too good for thee.  
But let it be so Apocryphal,  
As not to dare to venture on a stall;  
Unless of Drugster's, Grocers, Chandler's, Cooks,  
Victuallers, Tobacco-men and such like Rooks.  
From Bucklersbury let it not be barred,  
But think not of Duck-lane or Paul's yard. Church.  
But to advise thee Ben in this strict age,  
A Brick-kil's better for thee then a Stage.  
Thou better know'st a groundsel for to lay,  
Then lay the plot or ground work of a Play.  
And better canst direct to Cap a Chimney,  
Then to converse with Clio or Polyhimnye.   

Fall then to work in thy old age again,  
Take up thy Trug and Trowel gentle Ben,  
Let Plays alone: or if thou needs wilt write,  
And thrust thy feeble Muse into the light,  
Let Lowen cease, and Taylor scorn to touch  
The loathed Stage, for thou hast made it such.    

Ben: Johnson's Answer to Dr. Gill.  
SHall the prosperity of a pardon still  
Secure thy railing Rhymes infamous Gill  
At libelling? shall no Star-Chamber Peers,  
Pillory nor Whip, nor want of Ears.  
All which thou hast deservedly:  
Nor degradation from the Ministry.  
To be the Dionesse of thy Father's School,  
Keep in thy barking wit, thou bawling fool:  
Thinking to stir me, thou hast lost thy end,  
I'll laugh at thee poor wretched Tike, go send  
Thy blotant muse abroad, and teach it rather,  
A tune to drown the Ballads of thy Father:  
For thou hast nought to cure his fame,  
But tune and noise the Echoes of his shame.  
A Rogue by statute, censured to be Whipped,  
Cropped, branded, slit, neck-stockt, go you are stripped.   

Mr. Townsends Verses to Ben Jonson's, in answer to an Abusive Copy, crying down his Magnetic Lady.  
IT cannot move thy friend (firm Ben) that he  
Whom the Star-Chamber censured, times at thee.  
I gratulate the method of thy fate,  
That joined thee next in malice to the State.  
So Nero, after paracidall guilt,  
Brooks no delay till Lucan's blood be spilt.  
Nor could his malice find a second crime,  
Unless he slew the Poet of the time.  
But (thanks to Hëllicon) here are no blows,  
This Drone no more of sting then honey shows.  
His Verses shall be counted. Censure when  
Cast Malefactors are made Jurymen.  
Mean while rejoice, that so disgraced a quill,  
Tempted to wound that worth, time cannot kill:  
And thou that darest to blast Fame fully blown,  
Lie buried in the ruins of thy own.  
Vex not thine ashes, open not the deep,  
The Ghosts of thy slain name had rather sleep.   

On Luce Morgan a Common-Whore.  
EPIGRAM.  
HEre lies black Luce that Pick-hatch drab,  
Who had a word for every stab,  
Was lecherous as any Sparrow,  
Her Quiver open to every Arrow.  
Wert long, or short, or black, or white,  
She would be sure to noch it right.  
Were't Lords or Knights, or Priests, or Squires,  
Of any sort except a Friars:  
A Friars shast she lacked alone,  
Because in England here was none.  
At last some Vestal fire she stole,  
Which never went out in her hole.  
And with that zealous fire being burned,  
Unto the Romish faith she turned:  
And therein died, and was't not fit,  
For a poor whore to die in it.   

An Epitaph on a Whore.  
IN this cold Monument lies one,  
Which I know who hath lain upon.  
The happier he, whose sight might charm,  
And touch might keep King David warm.  
Lovely as is the dawning East,  
Was this Marbles frozen guest.  
As glorious and as bright as day.  
As odoriferous as May.  
As strait and slender as the Crest,  
Or Antler of the one beamed Beast,  
Whom I admired as soon as knew.  
And now her memory pursue,  
With such a superstitious Lust,  
That I could fumble with her dust.  
She all perfections had, and more,  
Tempting as if designed an Whore:  
For so she was, and some there are  
Whores, I could wish them all as fair.  
Courteous she was, and young, and wise,  
And in her calling so precise;  
That industry had made her prove,  
The sucking Schoolmistresse of Love.  
But Death, ambitious to become  
Her Pupil, left his ghastly home:  
And seeing how we used her here,  
The rawbone Rascal ravished her.  
Who pretty Soul resigned her breath,  
To practise Lechery with death.   

A mock-song.  

1.  
OH Love, whose power and might  
No Creature ere withstood,  
Thou forcest me to write,  
Come turn about Robin Hood.   

2.  
Sole Mistress of my heart,  
Let me thus fare presume,  
To make this bold request;  
A black patch for the Rheum.   

3.  
Grant pity or I die,  
Love so my heart bewitches,  
With grief I howl and cry;  
Oh how my Elbow Itches!   

4.  
Tears overflow my eyes  
With floods of daily weeping,  
That in the silent night,  
I cannot rest for sleeping.   

5.  
What is't I would not do  
To purchase one sweet smile?  
Bid me to China go,  
Faith I'll sit still the while.   

6.  
Oh Women you will never.  
But think men still will flatter;  
I vow I love you ever,  
But yet it is no matter.   

7.  
Cupid is blind they say,  
But yet methinks he seethe;  
He struck my heart to day,  
A Turd in Cupid's teeth.   

8.  
Her Tresses that are wrought,  
Much like the golden snare,  
My loving heart hath caught,  
As Moss did catch his Mare.   

9  
But since that all relief,  
And comfort do forsake me,  
I'll kill myself with grief;  
Nay then the Devil take me.   

10.  
And since her grateful merits,  
My loving look must lack,  
I'll stop my vital spirits  
With Claret and with Sack.   

12.  
Mark well my woeful hap,  
Jove rector of the Thunder,  
Send down thy thunder clap,  
And rend her smock in sunder.   

The Answer.  

1.  
YOur Letter. I received  
Bedecked with flourishing quarters,  
Because you are deceived,  
Go hang you in your Garters.   

2.  
My beauty which is none,  
Yet such as you protest,  
Doth make you sigh and groan:  
Fie, fie, you do but jest.   

3.  
I cannot choose but pity  
Your restless mournful tears,  
Because your plaints are witty,  
You may go shake your ears.   

4.  
To purchase your delight,  
No labour you shall lose,  
Your pains I will requite;  
Maid, fetch him Bread and Cheese.   

5.  
'Tis you I feign would see,  
'Tis you I daily think on;  
My looks as kind shall be,  
As the Devils over Lincoln.   

6.  
If ever I do tame  
Great Jove of Lightnings flashes;  
I'll send my fiery flame,  
And burn thee into ashes.   

7.  
I can by no means miss thee,  
But needs must have thee one day,  
I prithee come and kiss me,  
Whereon I sat on Sunday.     

In praise of his Mistress' beauty.  

1.  
I Have the fairest non-perell,  
The fairest that ever was seen,  
And had not Venus been in the way,  
She had been beauties Queen.   

2.  
Her lovely looks, her comely grace,  
I will describe at large;  
God Cupid put her in his books,  
And of this Gem took charge.   

3.  
The Grecian Helen was a Moor,  
Compared to my dear Saint,  
And fair faced Hyrens' beauty poor,  
And yet she doth not paint.   

4.  
Andromeda whom Peseus loved  
Was foul were she in sight,  
Her lineaments so well approved,  
In praise of her I'll write.   

5.  
Her hair not like the golden wire,  
But black as any Crow,  
Her brows so betled all admire,  
Her forehead wondrous low.   

6.  
Her squinting stareing gogling eyes,  
Poor children do affright,  
Her nose is of the Saracens size;  
Oh she's a matchless wight.   

7.  
Her Oven mouth wide open stands,  
And teeth like rotten pease,  
Her Swanlike neck my heart commands,  
And breasts all bit with Fleas.   

8.  
Her tawny dugs like too great hills,  
Hang Sow-like to her waste,  
Her body huge like two Windmills,  
And yet she's wondrous chaste.   

9  
Her shoulders of so large a breadth,  
she'd make an excellent Porter,  
And yet her belly carries most,  
If any man could sort her.   

10.  
No Shoulder of Mutton like her Hand,  
For broadness, thick and fat,  
With a pocky Mange upon her Wrist;  
Oh Jove! how love I that?   

11.  
Her Belly Tun-like to behold,  
Her bush doth all excel,  
The thing that's by, all men extolled,  
Is wider than a Well.   

12.  
Her brawny buttocks plump and round,  
Much like a Horse of War,  
With speckled Thighs, scanned and scarce sound;  
Her Knees like Bakers are.   

13.  
Her Legs are like the Elephants,  
The Calf and small both one,  
Her Ankles they together meet,  
And still knock bone to bone.   

14.  
Her pretty feet not 'bove fifteen,  
So splayed as never was,  
An excellent Usher for a man  
That walks the dewy grass.   

15.  
Thus have you heard my Mistress praised,  
And yet no flattery used,  
Pray tell me, is she not of worth?  
Let her not be abused.   

16.  
If any to her have a mind,  
He doth me wondrous wrong,  
For as she's Beauteous, so she's Chafed,  
And thus conclude my Song.    

A SONG.  

1.  
WHen young folks first begin to love,  
And undergo that tedious task,  
It cut's and scours throughout the powers  
Much like a running glass.   

2.  
It is so full of sudden joys  
Proceeding from the Heart,  
So many tricks, and so many toys,  
And all not worth a Fart.   

3.  
For Venus loved Vulcan,  
Yet she would lie with Mars,  
If these be honest tricks my love,  
sweet love come kiss mine   

4.  
If that which I have writ,  
Be unmannerly in speech,  
Yet when occasion serves to shire,  
Will serve to wipe your breech.   

5.  
Thus kindly and in Courtesy,  
These few lines I have written,  
And now O love come kiss mine  
For I am all beshitten.    

A Song of the Seamen and Land-soldiers.  

1.  
WE Seamen are the bonny-boyes,  
That fear no storms nor Rocks a,  
Whose Music is the Canon's noise,  
Whose sporting is with knocks a.   

2.  
Mars has no children of his own,  
But we that fight on Land a;  
Land-soldiers Kingdoms up have blown,  
Yet they unshaken stand a.   

3.  
'Tis brave to see a tall Ship fail,  
With all her trim gear on a,  
As though the Devil were in her tail,  
She fore the wind will run a.   

4.  
Our main battalia when it moves,  
there's no such glorious thing a,  
Where leaders like so many Joves  
Abroad their thunder fling a.   

5.  
Come let us reckon what Ships are ours,  
The Gorgon and the Dragon,  
The Lion that in fight is bold,  
The Bull with bloody flag on.   

6.  
Come let us reckon what Works are ours,  
Forts, Bulwarks, Barricadoes,  
Mounts, Gabions, parrapits, countermurs,  
Casemates and Pallisadoes.   

7.  
The Bear, the Dog, the Fox, the Kite,  
That stood fast on the Rover,  
They chased the Turk in a day and night,  
From Scandaroon to Dover.   

8.  
Field-pieces, Muskets, Groves of Pikes,  
Carbines and Cannoneers a,  
Squadrons, half Moons, with Ranks and Files,  
And Fronts, and Vans, and Reers a.   

9  
A Health to brave Land-soldiers all,  
Let Cans a piece go round a,  
Pellmell let's to the Battle fall,  
And lofty music sound a.    

A Song,  

MY dear and only love take heed,  
How thou thyself expose,  
And let no longing Lovers feed,  
On such like looks as those.  
I'll Marble wall thee round about,  
Being built without a door:  
But if my Love doth once break out,  
I'll never love thee more.   

Nor let their Oaths by volleys shot,  
Make any breach at all;  
Nor smoothness of their language plot  
A way to scale the wall,  
Nor balls of Wildfire Love consume,  
The shrine that I adore,  
For if such smoke about thee fume,  
I'll never love thee more.   

Thy wishes are as yet too strong,  
To suffer by surprise,  
And victed with my Love so long,  
Of force the siege must rife;  
And leave thee in that strength of health,  
And state thou wert before:  
But if thou prove a Commonwealth,  
I'll never love thee more.   

Or if by fraud, or by consent,  
My heart to ruin come,  
I'll ne'er sound Trumpet as I meant,  
Nor march by beat of Drum:  
But fouled mine Arms like Ensigns up,  
Thy falsehood to deplore,  
And after such a bitter cup,  
I'll never love thee more.   

Then do by thee as Nero did,  
When Rome was set on fire,  
Not only all relief forbid,  
But to a hill retire;  
And scorn to shed a tear to save  
Such spirits grown so poor,  
But laugh and sing thee to thy grave,  
And never love thee more.    

A Song.  

1.  
WHen Phoebus addressed his course to the West,  
And took up his rest below,  
And Cynthia agreed in a glittering weed,  
Her light in his stead to bestow.  
I travel▪ d alone, attended by none,  
Till suddenly I heard one cry;  
Oh do not, do not kill me yet,  
For I am not prepared to aye.   

2.  
With that I came near, to see and to hear,  
And there did appear a show;  
The Moon was so bright, I saw such a sight,  
Not fit that each wight should know.  
A Man and a Maid together were laid,  
And ever she cried, Oh fie!  
Oh do not, do not kill me yet,  
For I am not prepared to die.   

3.  
The young man was rough, and he took up her stuff,  
And to blind man buff he would go;  
Yet still she did cry, but still she did lie,  
And put him but by with a no:  
But she was so young, and he was so strong,  
Which made her still to cry,  
Oh do not, do not kill me,  
For I am not prepared to die.   

4.  
With that he gave o'er, and solemnly swore,  
He would kill her no more that night,  
He bid her adve, for little he knew,  
She would tempt him to more delight.  
But being to departed, it grieved her heart,  
Which made her loud to cry,  
Oh kill me, kill me once again,  
For now I am prepared to die.    

A SONG.  
I Courted a Lass, my folly was the cause of her disdaining;  
I courted her thus, what shall I sweet Dolly, do for thy dear loves obtaining?  
But another had dallied with this my Dolly, that Dolly for all her feigning,  
Had got such a Mountain above her Valley, that Dolly went home complaining.   

Upon my Lord Major's day, being put off by reason of the Plague.  

IF you'll but hear me I shall tell,  
A sad mischance that late befell, for which the days of old,  
In all new Almanacs must mourn,  
And Babes that never must be borne, shall weep to hear it told.   

For lo the sport of that great day,  
In which the Major hath leave to play, and with him all the town;  
H●s Flag, and Drum, and Fife released,  
And he forbidden to go a Feasting  
in his Scarlet Gown,   

No Fife must on the Thames be seen,  
To fright the Major, and please the Queen,  
nor any wildfire tossed.  
Though he suppose the Fleet that late,  
Invaded us in eighty eight,  
o'er matched by his Galley foist.   

The Pageants, and the painted cost  
Bestowed on them, are all quite lost,  
for now he must not ride:  
Nor shall they shear the Players tall,  
Being mounted on some mighty Whale,  
swims with him through Cheapside.   

Guildhall now must not entertain  
The Major, who there would feast his brain,  
with white-broth and with Hen:  
Nor shall the Fencers act their Pigs,  
Before the Hinch-boyes which are Giggs,  
whipped out with all the men.   

Nor must he go in state to swear,  
As he was wont at Westminster,  
no Trumpets at the Hall.  
Their clamorous voices there would stretch,  
As if the Lawyers they would teach,  
in their own Courts to bawl.   

But what in sooth is pity most,  
Is for their Daughters they have lost,  
all joys for which they pray:  
Which scatter palms on their cheeks,  
Which they had primed at least three weeks  
before against the day.   

And 'mongst themselves they much complain,  
That this Lord Major in first of reign,  
should do them so much wrong.  
As to suppress by message sad,  
The feast for which they all have had,  
their Marchpane dream so long.   

Thus for their beauteous sakes have I,  
Described the days large History,  
'tis true although not witty:  
Which is denied, for I'd be loath,  
To cut my coat, above my cloth,  
my Subject is the City.    

A Song by Sir John Suckling.  

OUt upon it, I have loved, three whole days together,  
And perchance might love three more, if that it hold fair weather;  
Time shall melt his wing away,  he can discover  
In the whole wide world again, such a constant lover.   

But a pox upon't, no praise there is due at all to me.  
Love with me had had no stay, had it any been but she:  
Had it any been but she, and that very very face,  
There had been long time  this, a dozen dozen in her place.   

The Answer by the same Author.  

SAy, but did you love so long? in sooth I needs must blame ye,  
Passion did your judgement wrong, and want of Reason shame ye;  
Truth, Times fair and witty Daughter, quickly did discover,  
You were a subject fit for laughter, and more Fool than Lover.   

Yet you needs must merit praise for your constant folly,  
Since that you loved three whole days, were you not melancholy?  
She for whom you loved so true, and that very very face,  
Puts each minute such as you, a dozen dozen to disgrace.     

Upon an old Scold.  
JOve lay thy Majesty aside, and wonder  
so hear a voice in consort with thy Thunder,  
Whilst thine with a shrill treble neatly graces,  
The roaring clamour of her deepmouthed basis;  
Yet in each point, her nimble chaps run on,  
The lubric touches of division.  
And when her kindled thoughts, her tongue inspire  
Instead of words, like Aetna, she spits fire:  
So in a word, (to her eternal fame)  
she'll exercise thy thunder, and thy flame;  
Old Time had pulled her teeth out, but they're sprung  
Again, more sharp and active in her tongue.  
In her Malignant Aspect doth appear,  
The season of the Dog-days all the year.  
With her sour look she might convert the Sea,  
And all the Elements to Curds and Whea.   

On a deformed old Woman (whorish) whom one was pleased to call the Phoenix.  
ARt thou the Phoenix? I could rather swear,  
Thou art calisto, changed into a Bear;  
Or else thou then transformed but in part,  
And so laid by, half Bear, halfe Woman art:  
Or art thou Io, whom adulterate J●ve,  
Long since, when thou wert beautiful did love:  
And jealous Juno for thy crime hath now  
Changed thee into a foul misshapen Cow;  
But thou the badge of thy disgrace now scorns,  
And makes thy harmless Husband wear thy horns.  
He that can call thee Phoenix from his heart,  
Must needs be such another as thou art.  
Or he to sacred beauty had a spite,  
(Like those that use to paint the Devil white)  
And calling thee the Phoenix hath outgone,  
All that revenge could e'er think upon;  
He had more truly spoke, and might with less  
Despite have call▪ d the Devil his Holiness.  
Should but thy picture be exposed to sight,  
And under it the name of Phoenix writ; would,  
They that ne'er knew what meant the Phoenix  
Straight swear by it, the Devil was understood.   

Upon Sir John Suckling.  

1.  
I'll tell thee Jack thou'st given the King,  
So rare a present that no thing,  
Can welcomer have been;  
An hundred horse beshrew my heart,  
It was a Noble, Gentile part,  
The like will scarce be seen.   

2.  
Nay more than so, thyself dost go,  
In person to affront thy foe,  
And kill the Lord knows whom:  
But faith were all men of thy mind,  
I think thou hadst rather stay behind,  
'Tis safer being at home.   

3.  
And now methinks I see thee charge,  
Thyself with freedom to enlarge,  
'Gainst foes that make a sally;  
Courage my heart, courage my John,  
I wish thou ghost more boldly on,  
Then in Blackfriar's Alley.   

4.  
I would advise thee take this course,  
Be sure to mount the speediest horse,  
Of all the troop thou givest:  
That when the Battles once begun,  
Thou swiftly then away mayst run,  
And show us that thou livest.   

5.  
Thou shalt be entertained here,  
By Ladies that do hold thee dear,  
By day and eke by night:  
They'll make thee do as Love commands,  
Pull Wars fierce Gauntlets from those hands,  
Were never made to fight.   

6.  
Since under Mars thou wert not borne,  
To Venus fly and think no scorn,  
Let it be my advice,  
Leave Wars and thankful be to Fate,  
Recovered hath thy lost Estate,  
By Carding and by Dice.   

7.  
And every Horse shall have on's back,  
A Man as valiant as Sir Jack,  
Although not half so witty,  
Yet I did hear the other day,  
Three Tailors made seven run away,  
Good faith the more's the pity.   

Sir John Suckling 's Answer.  

1.  
I'll tell thee fool who e'er thou be,  
That mad'st this fine song of me,  
Thou art a rhyming Sot;  
These very lines do thee betray,  
Their barren wit makes all men say,  
'Twas some rebellious Scot   

2.  
But 'tis no wonder if you sing,  
Such songs of me that am no King,  
When every Blow-cap swears;  
he'll not obey King James his barn,  
That hugs a Bishop under his Arm,  
And hangs him in his Ears.   

3.  
Had I been of your Covenant,  
You▪ d call me Son of John Agant,  
And give me great renown:  
But now I am John for the King,  
You say I am a poor Suckling,  
And thus you cry me down.   

4.  
Well 'tis no matter what you say,  
Of me, or mine, that ran away,  
I hold it no good fashion:  
A Loyal Subjects blood to spill,  
When we have knaves enough to kill,  
By force of Proclamation.   

5.  
Commend me unto Lashly stout,  
And his fellow Pedlars round about,  
Tell them without remorse;  
That I will plunder all the packs,  
Which they have got with stolen knick knacks,  
With these my hundred horse.   

6.  
This holy War, this zealous firk,  
Against the Bishop and the Kirk,  
Is a pretended bravery:  
Religion all the world can tell,  
Amongst Highlandlers ne'er did dwell.  
It's but to cloak their knavery.   

7.  
Such desperate gamesters as you be,  
I cannot blame for tutor me,  
Since all you have is down:  
And every boor forsakes his Blow,  
And swears that heel turn gamester now,  
To venture for a Crown.     

A Gentleman on his being trimmed by a Cobbler.  
MY hair grown rude, and Gally's bridge broke down,  
Which damned my passage to Carmarthen Town;  
Trimmed was I, I am sure, but by what monster,  
If I describe him, you will hardly Construe:  
'Tis one whose foot is in the stirrup still  
Yet never rides, waxes each hour more ill,  
Yet ever mends; can make a bad Soul better.  
Yet no Divine, nor scarce doth know a letter.  
He's always sowing, yet ne'er useth needle,  
Put, folks i'th' stocks, yet is no beggars beadle.  
men's legs he stretcheth often on a tree,  
Yet free from th' Gallows, and the Hangman's fee  
Let a Consumption some to skeletons waste,  
He will be sure to ease'um at the last;  
And yet is no Physician, he▪ s still knocking,  
Yet breaks no peace, nor need his doors unlocking.  
He always sits, yet Table wants, and Carpet,  
But looks like a scabbed Sheep, ta'en from a Tar pit.  
This lovely gallant, with his well-pitcht thumb,  
And Leather Apron on, my hide did thrum;  
And pared my face, 'twere worth the sight to have been  
To see his oilely joints about my chin.  
Carmarthen Barbers be not quite dismayed,  
Though Kit the Cobbler undertake your trade;  
'Twas only done that his best friends might feel,  
How perfect he is made from Head to Heel.   

On Jack Wiseman.  
JAck Wiseman brags his very name  
Proclaims his wit, he's much to blame,  
To do the Proverb so much wrong,  
Which says he's wise that holds his tongue;  
Which makes me contradict the Schools,  
And apt to think the vice men fools.  
Yet pardon Jack, I hear that now  
thou'rt wed, and must thy wit allow,  
That by a strange aenigma can,  
Make a light Woman a Wiseman.   

Love blind, a Song.  

1.  
LOve blind? who says so? 'tis a lie,  
I'll not believe it, no not I;  
If Love be blind, how can he then  
Discern to hit the hearts of men?  
Yet pause a while, it may be true,  
Or else he'd wound the women's too.   

2.  
The Females only scape? nay then,  
The lad has got his eyes again;  
And yet methinks 'tis strange that he  
Should strike at random thus, and fee;  
I'th' guiding still to fix his dart,  
And leave untouched the stubborn heart.   

3.  
Love blind? how can his darts surprise  
Our hearts then, piercing through our eyes?  
Unless by secret power guided,  
Lest he by us should be derided,  
It be the little Archers mind,  
To make us all as he is, blind.    

The Anglers Song.  

I'Th' nonage of the Morn we got up,  
If plots had ta'en all night, w'had sat up:  
Howe'er, before the Sun took Coach,  
We were with Bream, and Pike, and Roach:  
But if you'd know how we thus early  
Addressed to th' field, I'll tell you squarely.  
Th' Alarm of a Watch engages,  
And doth provoke our stout courages:  
For that at hour of three won't dally,  
So up we risen, and forth we sally.  
Of Fish we mean a flat massacre,  
And so we march o'er many an Acre.  
And that you mayn't our deeds misconstrue,  
Pray wots you well there is a monster;  
Who with tyrannic power doth seize on,  
(As greedy mortals feed on peason)  
Th' oppressed fry, he's height the Pike,  
Who oftentimes doth lurk in Dyke.   

So on we go, and much we brag,  
Though each behind his fellow lag.  
As home we came, that in our dish  
What proverb saith (as mute as Fish)  
You might have thrown: but this rare story,  
I'll not so rudely lay before ye.   

But at preceding points we'll touch,  
Though you perhaps will think't too much,  
But those I am resolved to give ye,  
Though I'm voluminous as Livy.   

Of Dew there was a gallant draught,  
Which when the Sun arose he quaffed:  
But 'cause he did not rise so soon,  
I'th' interim we had wet our shoes.  
When we came near the place called Breach-pond,  
(I wish that it had been in Dutch land)  
And that our fancies began to gallop,  
A thick blue mist did us envelop:  
Which caused us to commit an error,  
But yet we march on without fear or  
Wit, until that we arrive us,  
There where our fishing fate did drive us.  
But there we met with an ill Omen,  
For at the pond side there were some men,  
Which were so bold as to cry pish,  
As Proverb says, he'll catch no fish  
That swears; which they did stoutly,  
As they did the pond about lie.   

These men some bottles of Canary,  
To keep the Mists and Damps did carry;  
Although we did not ken a wight,  
Yet lovingly they us invite,  
That of their Sack we'd take a dish,  
Which was not bought to Fox the Fish.   

We left them and betook ourselves,  
With baits to Court the watery Elves;  
There we did practise Arts most acquaint,  
But rogish Fish they were so daintty,  
that they would not by't,  
But all our precious morsels flight;  
Though divers of them cost much money,  
(Among the rest was Loaf and Honey.)  
We count the cost to ten pence sterlin,  
All which into the pond we hurl in.  
The Proverb here should be inserted,  
But I am loath it should be inverted:  
Do what I can it needs will our,  
Lose a Fly, and catch a Trout,  
How e'er this adage goes, we are far,  
From losing of a Hog for Tar.  
So that's on our side still I see,  
One Proverb that's our enemy.  
For as we did our business handle,  
Our sport it was not worth the Candle.   

But to return, the wind did bluster,  
So we came home all in a cluster.  
Our heads hung down, our hands in pocket,  
And all our patience burnt to th'socket:  
Only by th'way we tried our skill,  
But the same Planet governed still  
That ruled i'th' morn: so home we hied us,  
And blame those Planets which that day had spied us,  
With blinking aspects, grudging our good fortune  
Though we most zealously did them importune.   

But the next day new sorrow administered,  
For all our feet were with our travel blistered.   J. N.  

A Song.  

1.  
SHe lay all naked in her bed,  
And I myself lay by;  
No Veil but Curtains about her spread,  
No covering but I.  
Her head upon her shoulder seeks,  
To hang in careless wise,  
All full of blushes was her cheeks,  
And of wishes were her eyes.   

2.  
The blood still fresh into her face,  
As on a message came,  
To say that in another place,  
It meant another game.  
Her cherry lips, moist, plump and fair,  
Millions of kisses crown,  
Which ripe and uncropped dangled there,  
And weigh the branches down.   

3.  
Her Breasts that swelled so plump and high,  
Bred pleasant pain in me,  
For all the world I do defy,  
The like felicity.  
Her thighs and belly soft and fair,  
To me were only shown,  
To have seen such meat, and not to have eat,  
Would have angered any stone.   

4.  
Her knees lay upward gently bend,  
And all lay hollow under,  
As if on easy terms they meant,  
To fall unforced asunder.  
Just so the Cyprian Queen did lie,  
Expecting in her Bower;  
When too long stay, had kept the boy,  
Beyond his promised hour.   

5.  
Dull clown, quoth she, why dost delay  
Such proffered bliss to take?  
Canst thou find out no other way  
Similitude to make?  
Mad with delight I thundering,  
Threw my Arms about her,  
But pox upon't 'twas but a dream,  
And so I lay without her.   

6.  
She lay up to the Navel bare,  
As was a willing Lover,  
Expecting between hope and fear,  
Wh●●… I would come and cover  
Her hand beneath my waist-band slips,  
To grope in busy wise,  
Which caused a trembling in her lips,  
And a trembling in her eyes.   

7.  
The blood out of her face did go,  
As it on service went,  
To second what was gone before,  
When all its strength was spent.  
Her Cheeks and Lips as Coral red,  
Like Roses were full blown:  
Which fading straight, the leaves were spread,  
And so the seed comes down.   

8.  
Her breasts that then both panting were,  
Such comfort wrought between us,  
That all the world I dare to swear,  
Would envy to have seen us.  
Her belly and its provender,  
For me was kept in store;  
Such news to hear, and not to have share,  
Would have made a man a Whore.   

9  
Her Legs were girt about my waste,  
My hand under her Crupper,  
As who should say now break your face,  
And come again to supper.  
Even as the God of War did knock,  
As any other man will,  
For hast of work, till twelve of clock,  
Kept Vulcan at his Anvil.   

10.  
Mad wag, quoth she, why dost thou make  
Such haste thyself to rear?  
Canst thou not know that for thy sake,  
The Fair lasts all the year?  
Quiet and calm as are loves streams,  
I threw myself about her,  
But apox upon true jests and dreams,  
I had better have lain without her.    

A Song.  

1.  
FUll forty times over, I have strived to win,  
Full forty times over neglected have been,  
But it's forty to one, but I'll tempt her again:  
For he's a dull lover,  
That so will give over,  
Seeing thus runs the sport,  
Seeing thus runs the sport,  
And assault her but often you'll carry the fort,  
Seeing thus runs the sport,  
And assault her but often you'll carry the fort.   

2.  
There's a breach ready made, which still open hath been,  
And thousands of thoughts to betray it within,  
If you once come to storm her, you're sure to get in.  
Then stand not off coldly,  
But venture on boldly,  
With weapon in hand,  
With weapon in hand,  
If you do but approach her, she's not able to stand.  
With weapon in hand.  
If you charge her but home she's not able to stand,   

3.  
Some Ladies when down them before you do sit,  
Will strive to repulse you with fire-balls of wit,  
But alas they're but Crackers and seldom do hit;  
Then vanquish them after,  
With Alarms of laughter,  
Their forces being broke,  
Their forces being broke,  
And the fire quite past, you may vanquish the smoke,  
Their forces being broke,  
And the fire quite past, you may vanquish the smoke.   

4.  
With pride and with state some outworks we make,  
And with volleys of frowns drive the enemy back,  
If you mind them discreetly they are easy to take,  
Then to it, ne'er fear them,  
But boldly come near them,  
By working about,  
By working about,  
If you once but approach, they can ne'er hold it out,  
By working about,  
If you once but approach, they can ne'er hold it out.   

5.  
Some Ladies with blushes and modesty fight,  
And with their own fear, the rude foe doth affright,  
But they're easy surprised, if you come in the night.  
Then thus you must drive it,  
To parley in private,  
And they'yr overthrown,  
If you promise them so fairly, they'll soon be your own,  
And they'yr overthrown.  
If you promise them so fairly, they'll soon be your own.    

A SONG.  

we'll go no more to Tunbridge wells,  
The journey is too fare,  
Nor ride in Epsome Wagon where  
Our bodies jumbled are.  
But we will all to the West-wood waters go,  
The best that e'er you saw,  
And we will have them henceforth called  
The Kentish new found Spa.  
Then go Lords and Ladies what e'er you ail,  
Go thither all that pleases,  
For it will cure you without all fail,  
Of old and new diseases.   

If you would know how it was out found,  
The truth I cannot tell,  
Some say it was by Doctor Trig, and so became a Well.  
Others affirm his Patient,  
Which did much pain endure,  
Went thither and washed a festered sore,  
And had a perfect cure.  
Then go, etc.   

Thither all the Country people flock,  
By day and eke by night,  
And for to fill their bottles full,  
They scramble, scratch and fight.  
But when the Gentry thither come,  
And others of good fashion,  
There is presented unto them,  
A fine accommodation,  
Then go, etc.   

joan's hole was the first was digged,  
My Ladies was next after,  
When you are there, you'll hardly taste,  
Which is the better water.  
For it is so that my Lady's hole,  
Is digged so near to Joan,  
That and if the people be too rude,  
They will break both holes in one,  
Then go, etc.   

Lady's there you may your bodies cleanse,  
By stool and Urine too,  
'twill make you have a stomach too't,  
Whether you will or no.  
There you may skip behind a bush,  
A fitting place to find,  
'Twill make you  and shut your purse,  
Before and eke behind,  
Then go, etc.   

If I should tell you it would cure,  
Each malady and grief,  
Perhaps you would be like other men,  
Or People past belief.  
Therefore I pray will you think it sit,  
Go thither all and try,  
And when you have approved of it,  
You'll say as much as I.  
Then go, etc.    

Of banishing the Ladies out of Town.  

1.  
A Story strange I will unfold,  
Than which a sadder ne'er was told,  
How the Ladies were from London sent,  
With much woe and discontent.   

2.  
A heart of Marble would have bled,  
To see this rout of white and red,  
Both York and Lancaster must fly,  
With all their painted Monarchy.   

3.  
Those faces which men so much prize,  
In Mrs Gibbs her Liveries,  
Must leave their false and borrowed hue,  
And put on grief that's only true.   

4.  
Those pretty patches long and round,  
Which covered all that was not sound;  
Must be forgotten at the Farms,  
As useless and suspicious charms.   

5.  
Now we must leave all our designs,  
That were contrived within the Lines;  
Communination is destroyed,  
If to our Husbands we be tried.   

6.  
And here's the misery alone,  
We must have nothing but our own;  
Oh give us Liberty and we  
Will never ask propriety.   

7.  
Alas how can a kiss be sent,  
From Rocky Cornwall into Kent?  
Or how can Sussex stretch an arm,  
To keep a Northern servant warm?   

8.  
Oh London! Centre of all Mirth,  
Th'Epitome of English Earth;  
All Provinces are in the streets,  
And  with Essex meets.   

9  
Then farewell Queens-street, and the Fields,  
And Garden that such pleasure yields,  
Oh who would such fair Lodgings change,  
To nestle in a plundered grange.   

10.  
Farewell good places old and new,  
And Oxford Kates once more adieu;  
But it goes unto our very hearts,  
To leave the Cheesecakes and the Tarts.   

11.  
Farewell Bridge-foot and Bear thereby,  
And those baldpates that stand so high,  
We wish it from our very souls,  
That other heads were on those poles.   

12.  
But whether heads of Parliament,  
Or of Husbands we're content,  
Since all alike such Traitors be,  
Both against us and Monarchy.    

A SONG.  

1.  
'TIs not your virtues make you to refuse me,  
Women are often coy, though seldom chaste,  
How e'er you use me,  
And seem straight laced,  
The fruit in the midst of the Garden placed,  
You long to Taste.   

2.  
Think not to cheat me then with seeming coldness,  
You do but counterfeit when you seem nice;  
A little boldness  
Will thaw that Ice,  
He spoils his market, sets to high a price,  
On your device.    

A SONG.  

1.  
LAy that sully Garland by thee,  
Keep it for the Elyzian shades;  
Take my Wreaths of lusty Ivy,  
Not of that faint myrtle made.  
When I see thy Soul descending,  
To that cool and sterile plain  
Of fond fools, the Lake attending,  
You shall wear this wreath again.  
Then drink wine, and know the odds,  
'Twixt that Lethe, 'twixt that Lethe,  
'Twixt that Lethe, and the Gods.   

2.  
Rouse thy dull and drowsy spirits,  
Behold the soul reviving streams,  
The stupid Lovers brains inherits;  
Nought but dull and empty dreams.  
Think not then those dismal trances,  
With our raptures can contend:  
The Lad that laughs, and sings, and dances,  
May come sooner to his end.  
Sadness may some pity move,  
Mirth and Courage vanquish Love.   

3.  
Fie then on that cloudy forehead,  
Open those vainly crossed arms,  
You may as well call back the buried,  
As raise Love by such dull charms.  
Sacrifice a Glass of Claret,  
To each letter of her name,  
Gods themselves descended for it,  
Mortals must do more the same.  
If she come not in that flood,  
Sleep will come, and that's as good.   

An Answer.  

1.  
CAst that Ivy-Garland from thee,  
Leave it for some ruder blade,  
Venus' Wreaths will best become me,  
Not of blazing Bacchus made.  
When my high flown soul ascended,  
To Loves bright and warmer sphere;  
Whilst with Chaplets I'm attended,  
Then an Ivy bush shall wear.  
Sober Lovers some may prove,  
Mortals tipple, mortals tipple,  
Gods do love.   

2.  
Welcome merry melancholy,  
Fancying beauties quicking beams,  
Boon Companions will though jolly,  
Shrink in over wetting streams.  
Think not that these ranting humours,  
May with modesty contend;  
Lesser love toys often do more,  
When they come unto their end.  
Pureness may some pity move,  
Sober carriage charm a Love.   

3.  
Offer up a yoke of kisses,  
To the Lady you adore,  
Jove for such a bliss as this is,  
Would come down as heretofore.  
If this way she can't be had,  
Drinking comes, and that's as bad.     

A Song.  

1.  
NO man's love fiery passions can approve,  
As either yielding pleasure & promotion,  
I like of mild and lukewarm zeal in Love,  
Although I do not like it in devotion.   

2.  
For it hath no coherence in my Creed,  
To think that Lovers do as they pretend;  
If all that say they die, had died indeed,  
Sure long  this, the world had had an end.   

3.  
Besides, we need not love unless we please,  
No destiny can force man's disposition;  
And how can any die of that disease,  
Whereof himself may be his own Physician?   

4.  
Some one perhaps with long Consumption dried,  
And after falling into Love may die;  
But I dare pawn my life, he ne'er had died,  
Had he been half so sound at heart as I   

5.  
Another rather than incur the slander,  
Of true Apostate, will false Martyr prove;  
But I am neither Orpheus nor Leander,  
I'll neither hang nor drown myself for love.   

6.  
Yet I have been a Lover by report,  
And died for love, as many others do,  
But thanks to Jove, it was in such a sort,  
That I revived within an hour or two.   

7.  
Thus have I lived, thus have I loved till now,  
And know no reason to repent me yet,  
And whosoever otherwise shall do,  
His courage is as little as his wit.    

A SONG.  

1.  
Dear Castodoris let me rise,  
Aurora'gins to jeer me,  
And say that I do wantonise,  
I prithee sweet lie near me.   

2.  
Let Red Aurora blush my dear,  
And Phoebus laughing follow,  
Thou only art Aurora here,  
Let me be thine Apollo.   

3.  
It is to envy at thy bliss,  
That they do rise before us,  
Is there such hurt in this, or this,  
Nay, ay, why Castodorus.   

4.  
What Arabella can one night  
Of wanton dalliance try you?  
I could be ever, if I might,  
One hour let me desire you.   

5.  
Nay fie, you hurt me, let me go,  
If you so roughly use me,  
What can I say, or think of you?  
I prithee sweet excuse me.   

6.  
Thy Beauty and thy Love defend,  
I should ungently move thee,  
'Tis blisses sweet that I intent,  
Is it not I that love thee?   

7.  
I do confess it is but then,  
Since you do so importune;  
That I should once lie down again,  
Vouchsafe to draw the Curtain:   

8.  
Aurora and Apollo too,  
May visit silent fields;  
By our consent, they ne'er shall know,  
What bliss our plesaure yields.    

A Song.  

1.  
BEauty and Love once fell at odds,  
And thus reviled each other,  
Quoth Love, I am one of the Gods,  
And thou waitest on my Mother.  
Thou hast no power on Men at all,  
But what I gave to thee,  
Nor art thou longer fair or sweet,  
Then men acknowledge thee.   

2.  
Away fond Boy, than Beauty said,  
We know that thou art blind,  
And men have judging eyes and can  
My graces better find,  
'Twas I begat thee all mortals know,  
And called thee blind desire,  
I made thy Quiver and thy Bow,  
And wings to fan the fire.   

3.  
Love strait in anger fled away,  
And thus to Vulcan prayed,  
That he would dip his Shafts,  
To punish this poor Maid.  
So beauty ever since hath been,  
But counted for an Whore,  
To love a day were now a sin,  
'Gainst Cupid and his power.    

A North Country Song.  

1.  
WHen I'se came first to London Town,  
I wor a Novice as other men are;  
I thought the King had lived at the Crown,  
And the way to'l Heaven had been through the Star.   

2.  
Ise set up my Horse, and Ice went to Paul's,  
Good Lord, quo I, what a Kirk been here;  
Then did Ice swear by all Kerson souls,  
It wor a mile long, or very near.   

3.  
It wor as high as any Hill,  
A Hill, quo I, nay as a Mountain,  
Then went Ice up with a very good will,  
But glad wor I to come down again.   

4.  
For as I went up, my head roe round,  
Then be it known to all Kerson people,  
A man is no little way from the ground,  
When he's o'th' top of all Poles steeple.   

5.  
Ise laid down my Hot, and Ice went to pray,  
But wor not this a most piteous case,  
Afore I had done it wor stolen away,  
Who'd have thought thiefs had been in that place?   

6.  
Now for mine Hot Ice made great moan,  
A slander by unto me said,  
Thou didst not observe the Scripture aright,  
For thou must a watched, as well as a prayed.   

7  
Forth thence Ice went and I saw my Lord Major,  
Good lack what a sight was there to see,  
My Lord and his Horse, were both of a hair,  
I could not tell which the Mare should be.   

8.  
From thence to Westminster, I went,  
Where many a brave Lawyer I did see,  
Some of them had a bad intent,  
For there my purse was stolen from me.   

9  
To see the Tombs was my desire,  
I went with many brave fellow's store,  
I gave them a penny that was their hire,  
And he's but a fool that will give any more.   

10.  
Then through the rooms the fellow me led,  
Where all the sights were to be seen,  
And snuffling told me through the nose,  
What formerly the name of the those had been,   

11.  
Here lies, quoth he, Henry the third,  
Thou liest like a Knave, he says never a word,  
And here lies Richard the second interred,  
And heres stands good King Edward's sword.   

12.  
Under this Chair lies jacob's stone,  
The very same stone lies under the Chair,  
A very good jest, had Jacob but one,  
How got he so many Sons without a pair?   

13.  
I stayed not there, but down with the Tide,  
I made great haste, and I went my way;  
For I was to see the Lions beside,  
And the Paris-garden all in a day.   

14.  
When Ice came there, I was in a rage,  
I railed on him that kept the Bears,  
Instead of a Stake was suffered a Stage,  
And in Hunks his house a crew of Players.   

15.  
Then through the Brigg to the Tower Ice went,  
With much ado Ice entered in,  
And after a Penny that I had spent,  
One with a loud voice did thus begin:   

16.  
This Lion's the Kings, and that is the Queens,  
And this is the Princes that stands hereby,  
With that I went near to look in the Den,  
Cod's body, quoth he, why come you so nigh?   

17.  
Ise made great haste unto my Inn,  
I supped and I went to bed betimes,  
Ise slept, and Ice dreamt what I had seen,  
And waked again by Cheapside Chimes.    

Verses written over the Chair of Ben: Johnson, now remaining at Robert wilson's, at the sign of Johnson's head in the Strand.  
WE ask not Ben, what's the design, did raise,  
This Mausoleum, to thy flesh or bays?  
Whether to eat, to write, to drink, to shit,  
To hug thy Wench, to give thy friend the right  
Of entertainment, with the lusty Wine,  
We scruple not, great Genius, 'tis Divine:  
And though our Nation could afford no room,  
Near Chaucer, Spencer, Draiton, for thy tomb;  
What thou ordain'st, though for thy pleasures, more  
Than Pyramids or Marbles guilded o'er.  
Here, here thou livest, and from thy latest night,  
Breakest forth into our world, with mirth and light,  
Whom thus great Soul we celebrate, but first  
Smile on our Liquor ere we quench our thirst:  
Appease thy Horace, when he views us here,  
Doing homage to thy name in Ale or Beer.  
We acknowledge Ben, here shined Ariadne's flame,  
Sack was the Morning, Evening of thy name:  
Thy Herculean Muse did rage at Inigo,  
With feavered flames, not with flight so low;  
But since the destinies have hither hurled,  
Thy vast contrivance with another world  
Of different fate, and a still clouded Sky,  
Our Fortunes cannot reach a pitch so high.  
Befriend us, Ben, be kind unto us now;  
Inspire thy Chair, from thy Elesian bough:  
This grove of Laurel, though at this low rate,  
Let it express what we but imitate.  
Let thy great Muse, give to our drink new birth,  
Antaeus' like, to lift us from the Earth;  
That whatsoever we swill, carouse, or quaff,  
May act thy verse, and live thy Epitaph.   

The long Vacation.  

NOw Town-wit saith to witty friend,  
Transcribe dear Rogue what thou hast penned,  
For I on journey hold it fit,  
To cry thee up, to Country wit,  
Our Mules are come, dissolve the Club,  
The word till Term is, rub, oh rub!  
Now Gamesters poor, in Cloak of stammel,  
Mounted on steed as slow as Camel;  
Bottom of Crab in luckless hand,  
Which serves for Bilbo and for Wand,  
Early inh ' morn doth sneak from Town,  
Lest Kit for rent should cease on Crown.  
One single Crown which he doth keep,  
When day is done to pay for sleep:  
For he on Journey nought doth eat,  
Host spies him come, cries Sir what meat?  
He calls for room and down he lies,  
Quoth Host no Supper: he cries,  
A pox on supper, fling on a Rug,  
I'm sick, d'ye hear, yet bring a Jugg.   

Now Damsel young that dwells in Cheap,  
For very joy gins to leap:  
Her Elbow small she oft doth rub,  
Tickled with hope of Sullybub.  
For Mother old that doth maintain,  
Gold on thumb, Key on Silver chain:  
In snow white clout, wraps nook of Pie,  
Fat Capon's rump, and Rabbits thigh;  
And saith to Hackney Coachman go,  
There's shillings six, say I or no:  
Whither quoth he? quoth she thy team  
Must drive to place where groweth Cream.  
But Husband Grace: now comes to stall,  
And for notched Apprentice he doth call:  
Where's Dame quoth he, quoth Son of Shop,  
She is gone her cake in milk to sop.  
Oh ho to Islington, enough:  
Call Tom my Son, and our dog Ruff,  
For there in pond through mire and muck,  
we'll cry hay Duck, hay Ruff, hay Duck.   

Now bawd by mortifying paunch,  
‛ Bates two stone weight on either haunch;  
On Bran and Liver she must dine,  
'Cause no man comes to solace Chine:  
For Biscuit stolen to fodder gut,  
Makes lie on back the craving slut.  
The needy whore bids roaring swash,  
That pines (in whiskers long) fetch Cash,  
There's Gown, quoth she: and Martha's smock,  
And coat, that covered Andrew's nock:  
Speak Broker fair, and tell him, that  
The next Terms tribute makes us fat.   

Now man of war that wanteth food,  
Grows Choleric, and sweareth, 'S'bloud  
He sendeth note to man of kin,  
But man leaves word, I am not within.  
H● meets inh ' street with friend called Will,  
And cries, you Rogue, what living still?  
But ere that street they quite have past,  
He softly asks, what Money hast?  
Quoth friend a Crown: 'S'heart  
Thou beast no more? sweet lend me part.   

Now London Major in Saddle new,  
Rides into Fair of Bartholomew:  
He twirls his Chain, and looketh big,  
As he would fright the head of Pig:  
Which gapeing lies on greasy stall,  
Till Female with huge belly call.   

Now Alderman in Field doth stand,  
With foot on trig, and quaite in hand.  
I'm seven, quoth he, the game is up,  
Nothing I pay, and yet I sup.  
To Alderman, quoth neighbonrs then,  
I lost but Mutton, played for Hen;  
But wealthy blade cries out, at rate  
Of King thou'dst play, let's go, 'tis late.   

Now Levite that near Bridewell dock,  
In old blind nook feeds silly flock:  
With common course, though spiritual,  
Fit food for blade that works on stall:  
These all with solemn Oath agree,  
To meet in Fields of Finsbury,  
With loins in Canvas, Bow-case tied,  
Where Arrows stick with much pride;  
With Hat pined up, and Bow in hand,  
All day so fiercely there they stand,  
Like Ghosts of Adam, Bell and Clim,  
Sol sets for fear they'll shoot at him.   

Now Vaulter good, and Dancing lass  
On Roap: and man that cries hay toss,  
And tumbler young that needs but stoop,  
Lay head to heel, and creep through hoop;  
And man that doth in Chest include,  
Old Sodom and Gomorrah lewd;  
And shows those drabs the sisters two,  
That Let debauched, then made him do;  
And Man that while the Puppets play,  
Through Nose expoundeth what they say:  
And Ape led Captive still in chain,  
Till he renounce the Pope and Spain.  
And white Oat eater that doth dwell,  
In stable small, at sign of Bell.  
That lifts up hoof to show the pranks,  
Taught by Magician styled Banks.  
These all on hoof now trudge from town,  
To cheat poor Turnup-eating Clown.   

Now spin Ralph and Gregory small,  
And short haired Stephen, and white faced Paul;  
Whose times are out, Indentures torn,  
That full seven years taught them not scorn  
To fetch up Coals for maid to use,  
Wipe Mistress and children's shoes;  
Hire meager Steeds to ride and see  
Their Parents good: who dwell as near  
As place called Peake in Derby shire;  
There they alight, old Crones are mild,  
Each weeps on Crag of pretty Child:  
They Portions give, Trades up to set,  
That babes may live, serve God and cheat.   

Now Kit that trusts with weary thighs,  
Seeks Garret where small Poet lies:  
He comes to room, finds Garret shut,  
Than not with knuckle, but with foot  
He roundly knocks: would enter door,  
The Poet sleeps not, but doth snore.  
Kit chafes like beast of Libya then,  
Swears he'll not come nor send again.  
With little lump trianguler,  
Strait Poet sighs are heard a fare.  
Quoth he, can't noble numbers choose,  
But walk on foot, that have no shoes?  
Then doth he wish with fervent breath,  
As 'twere his last request ere death.  
Each owed a Bond, each Madrigal,  
A Lease from Haberdasher's Hall:  
Or else that he derived had been,  
From Cod or King, and knock of Queen.  
For wight enthroned cares, not an Ace  
For Wood-street friend, that Weeldech Mace.  
Kings pay no scores but when they list,  
And treasurer still hath cramp in fist.   

Now wight that acts on stage of Bull,  
In Sculler's bark doth lie at Hull:  
Which he for pennies two doth rig,  
All day on Thames to bob for Grig;  
Whilst Fencer poor doth by him stand,  
In old dung Litter hook in hand,  
Between knees rod: with Canvas crib  
To girdle tied; fast under rib;  
Where worms abide, that little fish,  
Betray at night to Earthen dish.   

Near house of Lane by Temple Bar,  
Now man of Mace cares not how far.  
(In stockings blue) he marcheth on,  
With Velvet Cape his Cloak upon,  
On Girdle scroll, where name of sum,  
Is written down, which he with thumb,  
On shoulder left, must safe Convey,  
Awing sad wight, with name of Roy.  
Poor Prisoners friend that sees the touch,  
Cries out, by God I thought as much.   

Now Poet small, to Globe doth run,  
And vows to Heaven four acts are done:  
Finis to bring he doth protest,  
Tells each aside, his part is best:  
And all to get as Poets use,  
Mineral in pouch to comfort Muse:  
But stay, my frighted muse is fled,  
Myself through fear crept under bed;  
For just as pen would scribble more,  
Fierce City Dun did rap at door.    

A Song.  

1.  
POx take you Mistress I'll be gone,  
I have friends to wait upon;  
Think you I'll myself confine,  
To your humours (Lady mine.)  
No, your louring seems to say:  
'Tis a rainy drinking day,  
To the Tavern I'll away.   

2.  
There have I Mistress got,  
Cloystered in a Pottle pot:  
Brisk and sprightly as thine Eye,  
When thy richest glances fly.  
Plump AND bounding lively fair,  
Buxom, soft and debonair:  
And she's called Sack my DEAR.   

3.  
Sack's my better Mistress fare,  
Sack my only beauty star;  
Whose rich beams, and glorious ray,  
Twinkle in each red rose and face:  
Should I all her virtues show,  
Thou thyself wouldst lovesick prove,  
AND she'd prove thy Mistress TOO.   

4.  
She with no dartscorne will blast me,  
But upon thy Bed can cast me;  
Yet near biush herself too red,  
Nor fear a loss of Maidenhead:  
And she can (the truth to say)  
Spirits into me convey,  
MORE than thou canst take AWAY.   

5.  
Getting kisses here's no toil,  
Here's no Handkerchif to spoil;  
Yet I better Nectar sip,  
Then can dwell upon thy lip:  
And though mute and still she be,  
Quicker wit she brings to me,  
THAN e'er I could find in THEE.   

6.  
If I go ne'er think to see,  
Any more a fool of me;  
I'll no liberty up give,  
Nor a Maudlin-like Love live.  
No, there's nought shall win me to't,  
'Tis not all thy smiles can do't,  
Nor thy Maidenhead to BOOT.   

7.  
Yet if thou'lt but take the pain,  
TO be good but once again.  
If one smile then call me back,  
THOU shalt be that Lady Sack.  
Faith but try and thou shalt see,  
What a loving Soul I'll be,  
WHEN I am drunk with nought but thee.   

The Answer.  

1.  
I Pray thee Drunkard get thee gone,  
Thy Mistress Sack doth smell too strong:  
Think you I intent to wed,  
A sloven to bepiss my bed?  
No, your staining me's to say,  
You have been drinking all this day,  
Go, begun, away away.   

2.  
Where you have your Mistress Sack,  
Which hath already spoiled your back,  
And methinks should be too hot,  
To be cloistered in a pot.  
Though you say she is so fair,  
So lovely and so debonair,  
She is but of a yellow hair.   

3.  
Sack's a Whore which burns like fire,  
Sack consumes and is a drier;  
And her ways do only tend  
To bring men unto their end.  
Should I all her vices tell,  
Her rovings and her swear fell,  
Thou wouldst damn her into Hell.   

4.  
Sack with no dirt scorns will blast thee,  
But upon thy Bed still cast thee:  
And by that impudence doth show,  
That no virtue she doth know:  
For she will, the truth to say,  
Thy body in an hour decay,  
More than I can in a day.   

5.  
Though for kisses there's no toil,  
Yet your body she doth spoil:  
Sipping Nectar whilst you sit,  
She doth quite besot your wit:  
Though she is mute she'll make you loud,  
Brawl and fight in every crowd,  
When your reason she doth cloud.   

6.  
Nor do thou ever look to see,  
Any more a smile from me;  
I'll no liberty, nor sign,  
Which I truly may call mine.  
No, no slight shall win me to▪ t,  
'Tis not all thy parts can do't,  
Thy Person nor thy Land to boot.   

7.  
Yet if thou wilt take the pain,  
To be sober once again,  
And but make much of my back,  
I will be in stead of Sack.  
Faith but try, and thou shalt see,  
What a loving Soul I'll be,  
When thou art drunk with nought but me.   

I Had a Love and she was chaste,  
Alack the more's the pity,  
But wots you how my love was chaste,  
She was chaste quite through the City.     

Upon a Priest that lies buried in Wells.  
A Priest there was of Wellis,  
Where was tinkled a great many Bellies,  
And in concordance,  
He played well on the Organce:  
And he was an excellent singer,  
And in the world not such a ringer.   

A SONG.  

WHen Virtue was a Country maid,  
And had no skill to set up trade,  
Was brought to town by a Carrier's jade,  
That stood at rack and manger:  
She took her Whiff, she drank her Can,  
The Pipe was ne'er out of her span,  
She married a Tobacco man,  
A stranger.   

She set up a Shop in Hony lane,  
Whereto the flies did flock amain,  
Some flew from France and some from Spain,  
Brought by the English Pander.  
But when the Honey pot grew dry,  
And winter came, the Flies must die:  
Her Husband he was forced to fly  
From Flanders.    

A Scholars answer to one that sent to borrow his Horse.  
RIght Worshipful Frank,  
I humbly thee thank,  
For the kindness received of late,  
Ingratitude sure I cannot endure,  
'Tis a vice that I utterly hate.  
I hear you provide a journey to ride,  
If any would lend you a Jennet.  
I protest before God, mine's all gone abroad,  
And won't be at home this seven-night.  
But yet my kind Francis, if that it so chances,  
That a horse you needs must hire.  
If your business be hasty, I'll lend you my Masty,  
To carry you out of the mire.  
'Tis a dainty fine cur,  
You need not him spur,  
If you his conditions but knew,  
For he'll prance and he'll gape,  
When he carries my Ape,  
Much more when he carries you.   

A Song.  

1.  
THere was an old Lad, road on an old pad,  
Unto an old punk a wooing;  
He laid the old punk, upon an old trunk,  
Oh there was good old doing.   

2.  
There was an old maid, scarce sweet as they said,  
In a place I dare not make mention,  
She in an old humour lay with a Perfumer,  
Oh there was a sweet invention.   

3.  
The Punk and the Maid, they swear & they said,  
That Marriage was servillity;  
If Mary you must, for changing of Lust,  
Oh well far a trick of nullity.   

4.  
There was a mad man did study to frame a  
Device, to draw up a prespuce,  
She drew up so narrow, a Car might go through,  
Oh there was a slender sluice.   

5.  
Her Earl did appoint her, she said, such a Jointhre,  
As was of no validity,  
Above twice in a night, he did her no right,  
Oh there was a strange frigidity.   

6.  
But when as her Earl had another girl,  
His wimble did pierce her flank,  
His Nag proved able, by changing of stable,  
O there was a quod ad hanc.   

7.  
This dame was inspected, by fraud interjected,  
A maid of more perfection,  
Whom the Midwives did handle, while the K nt held the candle,  
Oh there was a clear inspection.   

8.  
Now as foreign writers, cry out of their mitres,  
That allow this for a virginity,  
And talk of Election, and waul of Election;  
Oh there was a sound Divinity.   

9  
There was a young Lord assumed on his word,  
That he would be a Parliament maker,  
But see how things altar, he assumed a halter,  
Oh there was an undertaker.   

10.  
He had a sweet friend, which he did commend,  
To the keeping of sweet Sir Jarvis,  
They gave him a Clyster, made his Belly to blister,  
Oh there was a sweet piece of service.   

11.  
This friend he denied, and would not abide,  
A Marriage that so would shame us,  
Between the sweet Matron, & this grave patron;  
Oh patron of Ignoramus.   

12.  
Now Weston and Horn, and Turner do turn,  
And say that this plot was fraud,  
These may say their pleasure, some think hard measure,  
Oh Knaves, and Punks, and Bawds.    

A Song.  
To the Tune of Packington's Pound.  

1.  
MY Masters and friends, and good people draw near,  
And look to your Purses, for that I do say,  
And though little money in them you do wear,  
It cost more to get, than to lose in a day;  
You oft have been told,  
Both the young, and the old,  
And bidden beware of the Cutpurse so bold.  
Then if you take heed not, free me from this curse,  
Who both give you warning for, and the Cutpurse;  
Youth, youth, thou hadst better been starved by thy Nurse,  
Then live to be hanged for cutting a purse.   

2.  
It hath been upbraided to men of my Trade,  
That ofttimes we are the cause of this crime,  
Alack and for pity, why should it be said?  
As if they regarded or places or time:  
Examples have been,  
Of some that were seen,  
In Westminster Hall, yea the Pleaders between.  
Then why should the Judges be free from this curse,  
More than my poor self for cutting the purse?  
Youth, youth, etc.   

3.  
At Worcester 'tis known well, and even i'th'Jayl,  
A Kt. of good worth, did there show his face,  
Against the frail sinner in rage for to rail,  
And lost (ipso fact) his purse in the place;  
Nay even from the seat,  
Of Judgement so great,  
A Judge there did lose a fair Purse of Velvet,  
O Lord for thy mercy how wicked or worse,  
Are those that so venture their necks for a Purse I  
Youth, youth, etc.   

4.  
At Plays and at Sermons, and at the Sessions,  
'Tis daily their practice such booty to make;  
Yea under the Gallows, at Executions,  
They stick not, they stare about Purses to take;  
Nay one without Grace,  
At a better place,  
At Court and in Christmas before the King's face.  
Alack then for pity must I bear the curse,  
That only belong to the cunning Cutpurse?  
Youth, youth, etc.   

5.  
But O you vile Nation of Cutpurses all,  
Relent and repent, and amend and be sound,  
And know that you ought not by honest men● fall,  
To advance your own fortunes, to die above ground,  
And though you go gay,  
In Silks as you may,  
It is not the highway to Heaven (as they say)  
Repent then, repent you, for better, for worse,  
And kiss not the Gallows for cutting a Purse.  
Youth, youth, thou hadst better been starved by thy nurse,  
Then live to be hanged for cutting a purse.    

To the Tune of I wail in woe, I plunge in pain: OR, LABANDOLA shot.  

Verse 1.  
IN Cheapside famous for Gold and Plate,  
Quicksilver I did dwell of late:  
I had a Master good and kind,  
That would have wrought me to his mind;  
He bade me still work upon that,  
But alas! I wrought I knew not what!  
He was a Touch stone black but true,  
And told me still what would ensue;  
Yet woe is me I would not learn,  
I saw alas! but could not discern.   

Verse 2.  
I cast my Coat and Cap away,  
I went in Silks and Satins gay;  
False mettle of good manners I,  
Did daily Coin unlawfully.  
I scorned my Master, being drunk,  
I kept my Gelding and my Punk,  
And with a Knight, Sir Flash by name,  
Who now is sorry for the same.   

Verse 3.  
Still Eastward Hoe was all my word,  
But Westward I had no regard;  
Nor never thought what would come after,  
As did alas his youngest Daughter.  
At last the black Ox trod on my foot,  
I saw then what belonged unto't:  
Now cry I, Touchstone, touch me still,  
And make me current by thy skill.   

Verse 4.  
O Manington thy stories show,  
Thou cut'st a Horst head off at a blow;  
But I confess I have not the force,  
For to cut off the head of a Horse.  
Yet I desire this grace to win,  
That I may cut off the Horse head of sin,  
And leave his body in the dust  
Of sins high way, and bogs of lust:  
Whereby I may take virtue's purse,  
And live with her for better for worse.   

Verse 5.  
Farewell Cheapside, farewell sweet Trade,  
Of Goldsmiths all that never shall fade.  
Farewell dear fellow-prentices all,  
And be you warned by my fall.  
Eat Usurers bonds, and Dice, and Drabs,  
Avoid them as you would French fcabs.  
Seek not to go beyond your teacher,  
And cut your thongs unto your leather;  
So shall you thrive by little and little,  
Escape Tyburn, Counters, and the Spittle.    

A Song.  

1.  
Ladies here I do present you,  
With a dainty dish of fruit,  
The first it was a Poplin pear,  
'Twas all the fruit the tree did bear;  
You need not pair it any whit,  
But put it all in at a bit.  
And being let a while to lie,  
'Twill melt, 'twill melt, 'twill melt most pleasantly.   

2.  
The next in order you shall have,  
A rich Potata and a brave,  
Which being laid unto the fire,  
God Cupid kindles to desire;  
For when 'tis baste, with little cost,  
'Twill baste itself when it is roast;  
It needs no Sugar, nor no Spice,  
'Twill please a stomach ne'er so nice,  
'Twill make a Maid at midnight cry,  
It comes, it comes, it comes, it comes most pleasantly.   

3.  
The next by lot as doth befall,  
Is two handfuls of Roundsefalls;  
Which Priamus the garden God  
Made Venus eat within the God:  
You must not prune too much at first,  
For if you do, tears out will burst,  
And being let a while to lie,  
'Twill drop, 'twill drop, 'twill drop, 'twill drop most prettily.   

4.  
The best of things in all the land,  
You shall have Mars his only wand,  
Protecting of that pretty flower,  
Which comes and goes in half an hour;  
The flowers of Virtue that do grow,  
Because they'll please all women so:  
But when Mars draws back his wand,  
It lies it lies, it lies, and cries, and cannot stand.    

Upon the burning of a Petty School.  
WHat heat of learning kindled your desire  
You cursed sons to set your house on fire?  
What love of honour in your breasts did turn  
Those sparks of fury into flames to burn  
Or was't some higher cause? were the hot gods  
Phoebus & Vulcan cold friends now at odds?  
What ere the Cause was, surely ill was th' intent  
When all the Muses justly may lament;  
But above all for names sake Polyhymy  
Bewails the downfall of that learned Chimney,  
Where you might see without or wit or sense  
Lay the sad ashes of an Accidence.  
What numbers here of Nouns to wrack did go,  
As Domus, Liber, and as many more,  
In woeful case, no sex the flames did spare  
Each gender in this loss had common share;  
There might you see the Rueful declinations  
Of 15 Pronouns and 4 Conjugations.  
Some Gerunds Die, but some Do overcome, struck dumb.  
And some with heat and smoke are quite  
Supines lay gasping upwards void of fences,  
The moods were mad to see imperfect tenses,  
Adverbs of place threw down their lofty stories  
As ubi, ibi, illic, intus, foris.  
Conjugations to disjoin as you would wonder  
Nor coupling scarce but it was burnt asunder  
The Praepositions know not where to be,  
Each Interjection cried Heu I woe is me.  
For the due joining of the things again  
A Neighbour called qui mihi comes amain;  
Else sure the fire had into flames so turned  
Gods, Men Months, Rivers, Winds, and all had burned.  
Now'gan the flames to Heteroclites to number  
And poor supellex lost his plural number,  
Of verbs scarce had escaped one of twenty.  
Had there not been by chance As in presenti.  T. R.  

Upon the fall of Wisbech Bridge.  

Help help you undertakers all  
Whose purses are the stronger;  
Our bridge the falling-sickness hath  
For it can stand no longer.   

And come you cruel Watermen  
And lend your help toth' town.  
‛ It's you I doubt that shot the bridge;  
And so have thrown it down.   

What was the cause of this mischance?  
There is a great confusion;  
I saw by the water that he was  
Of a Crazy constitution   

Some say the enlarging of the streams  
Struck up the bridges heels  
It was to much strong water sure  
That made him drunk and real.   

And some do say, he fell because  
His feet had no good landing  
I rather think the block head fell  
For want of understanding  
Although our Country suffer loss  
And at this downfall grudges  
It was the upstart-sluce that put  
Our aged bridge to's Crutches.  
The Lords will have it built again  
Much longer than the other;  
Introth I think it will be long  
Ere we have such another.  
But who shall build this stately piece  
There's no man can suppose;  
The Dutch man doubts the Lords do mean  
To make a bridge of's noses.  
And some do say that Master Day  
Will give to it ten pound,  
But he replied (by 〈◊〉) they lied,  
He had rather see them drowned.  
But let not Wisbech be dismayed,  
Nor at this loss complain;  
For though our bridge a Bankrupt be  
We'll set him up Again.   T. R.  

Upon the fall of the Mitre in Cambridge.  
LAment Lament you scholars all,  
Each wear his blackest gown;  
The Mitre that upheld your wits,  
Is now itself fallen down.  
The dismal fire on London bridge  
Can move no heart of mine.  
For that but o'er the water stood  
But this stood over the Wine.  
It needs must melt each christians heart  
That this sad news but hears,  
To see how the poor hog's heads wept  
Good Sack and Claret tears.  
The zealous students of that place  
Change of Religion fear,  
That this mischance may soon bring in  
The Heresy of Beer.  
Unhappy Mitre, I would know  
The cause of thy sad hap;  
Was it for making legs to low  
To Pembroke's Cardinals cap?  
Then know thyself, & cringe no more,  
Since Popery went down  
That cap should veil to thee, for now  
The Miter's next the Crown.  
Or was't because our company  
Did not frequent the Cell  
As we were wont, to drown these cares,  
Thou foxed thyself and fell?  
No sure the Devil was adry  
And caused this fatal blow  
'twas he that made this Cellar sink  
That he might drink below;  
And some do say the Devil did it  
'Cause he would drink up all,  
I rather think the Pope was drunk  
And let his Mitre fall.  
Poor Commoners to your great disgrace  
Your want of skill acknowledge  
To let a Tavern fall that stood  
Oth' walls of your own College.  
Risen now withers, Falcon moults,  
White Sam enjoys his wishes  
The Dolphin now must cast his Crown,  
Wine was not made for fishes.  
This sign a Tavern best becomes,  
To show who loves it best.  
The Mitre is the only sign,  
For 'tis the Scholar's Crest,  
Thou Same drink Sack and cheer thyself  
Be not dismayed at all  
For we will drink it up again  
Though we do catch the fall,  
we'll be thy workmen day and night  
In spite of Bug bear Proctors  
We drank like Freshmen all before,  
But now we'll drink like Doctors.  T. R.  

A match at .  
Go you same Gallants, you that have the name,  
And would accounted be cocks of the game  
That have brave spurs to show for't and can crow,  
And count all dunghill breed that cannot show vice  
Such painted plumes as yours, that think no  
Coy cock-like lust to tread your cockatrice; you be,  
Though Peacock's Woodkocks Weathercoks  
If y'aer no fight cocks y'are not for me.  
I of two feathered combatants will write;  
He that toth' life means to express their fight,  
Must make his Ink their blood which they did spill,  
And from his dying wings borrow his quill.  
No sooner was the doubtful people set,  
The match's made and all that would had bet;  
But strait the skilful Judges of the play  
Bring forth their sharpe-heeld warriors, and they  
Were both in linen bags, as if 'twas meet,  
Before their day to have had their winding sheet.  
With that i'th' pit they're put, and when they were,  
Both on their feet the Norfolk Chantdecleer  
Looks stoutly on his ne'er before seen foe,  
And like a challenger gins to crow,  
And shake his wings, as that he did display  
His warlike colours, which were black and grey;  
Mean while the wairy Wisbitch walks and breaths,  
His active body and in fury wreaths  
His comely crest, and often looking down  
He whets his angry beak upon the ground.  
With that they meet, not like that coward breed  
Of Esope; these can better fight then feed.  
They scorn the dunghill, 'tis their only prize  
To dig for Pearls in each others eyes;  
They fought so long that it was hard to know,  
Toth' skilful whether they did fight or no;  
Had not the blood which died the fatal floor,  
Born witness of it, yet they fight the more,  
As that each wound were but a spur to prick  
Their fury forward, lightning not more quick  
Nor red then were their eyes; 'tis hard to know,  
Whether it was blood or anger made them so.  
And sure they had been out, had they not stood  
More safe by being fenced in with blood:  
But still they fight; But now alas at length,  
Although their courage be full ●yirde, their strength  
And blood began to Ebb, you that have seen  
A water combat on the Sea between  
Two angry boiling billows, how  
They march and meet, and dash their curled brow,  
Swelling like graves, as though they did intent  
To entomb each other ere the quarrel end:  
But when the wind is down, and blustering weather,  
They are made friends, and sweetly run together.  
Me thinks these Champions such, their wind grown low,  
And they which leapt even now, now scarce can go.  
Their wings which lately at each blow they clapped,  
As if they did applaud themselves, they flap;  
And having lost the advantage of the heel,  
Drunk with each others blood, they only reel;  
From both their eyes such drops of blood did fall,  
As if they wept them for their funeral:  
And yet they feign would fight, they come so near,  
As if they meant into each others ear,  
To whisper death, & when they cannot rise,  
They lie and look blows into each others eyes:  
But now the Tragic part after the fight,  
When Norfolk Cock had got the best of it,  
And Wisbitch lay a dying, so that none  
Though sober but might venture seven to one  
Consuming like a dying Taper all  
His force, as meaning with that blow to fall,  
He struggles up, and having taken wind,  
Venters a blow and strickes the other blind.  
And now poor Norfolk having lost his eyes,  
Fights only guided by Antipathies;  
With him (alas) the Proverb holds too true,  
The blows his eyes were sure his heart must rue:  
At length by chance, he stumbling on his foe,  
Not having any strength to deal a blow;  
He falls upon him with a wounded head,  
And made the conquerors wings his feather bed:  
Where lying sick, his friends were very chary  
Of him, and fetched in haste th' Apothecary:  
But still in vain, his body doth so blister,  
That it's not capable of any glister;  
Wherefore at last opening his fainting bill,  
He called a Scrivener, and thus made his will.  

Inprimis, let it never be forgot,  
My body freely I bequeath tooth th' pot,  
Decently to be boiled, and for its Tomb,  
Let it be buried in some hungry Womb.  
Item Executor I will have none,  
But he that on my side laid seven to one:  
And like a gentleman that he may live,  
To him, and to my heirs my comb I give;  
Together with my brains, that all may know  
That oftentimes his brains do use to crow.  
Item it's my will those, weaker ones,  
Whose wives complain of them, I give my stones.  
To him that's dull I do my spurs impart,  
And to the Coward I bequeath my heart:  
To Ladies that are light, it's my will,  
My feathers should be given; and for my bill,  
I'd give to'a Taylor, but it's so short,  
That I'm afraid he rather curse me for't.  
And to the worthy Doctors, they who meant  
To give me a glister, let my rump be sent:  
Lastly because I feel my life decay,  
I yield, and give to Wisbitch cock the day.   T. R.  

On the praise of fat Men.  

LO precious Rules are here made common,  
For health of either man or woman▪  
If thou fat mortal feign wouldst be,  
With cheeks so plump, for eyes to see:  
Know feeding hard and drinking much,  
With sleeping long, will make you such.  
Cram thou until thou fartst at table,  
'Twill make thee fat as jade in the stable.  
If thou thy Buttocks would have spread,  
Sat long after thou haft well fed;  
'twill make the Haunches large to grow,  
Through gown or breeches, making show.  
If thou thy flesh wilt hold together,  
Walk not though it be fair weather;  
All exercise forbear, for that  
But wastes and melts away the fat.  
You see when Boars for Brawn we feed,  
That they're penned up in fly indeed.  
Which makes their fat more firm and hard  
Then is the greatest Bacon Lard,  
So you the dyning-room may keep  
To eat and drink in, shit and sleep.  
Your wiser Germane sit at meals  
So long till it runs down their heels,  
Nor do they think it any scorn;  
For what or'flows, their rooms adorn.  
In camp you may find out his tent  
From other Nations by the sent;  
For there the Paking up of Rhenish,  
Disturbs no stomach that is quemish.  
To eat and drink, to shit, and spew,  
Is custom old, no fashion new.  
Your pills and potions are poor things  
To those more natural scowerings,  
To see a mortal with large pode  
Disburden Colon of his load,  
Or see one which eat apple pie  
Till she hath need to let it fly  
Doth show that all is right within  
That sends forth Pudding without skin,  
These are the natural coneys that show  
The feeding bodies ebb and flow.  
For in the microcosm we  
All changes of the great world see,  
Let hungry wight forbear a meal  
It makes him look like slinked veal;  
His belly thinks his throat is cut,  
And cramp gins to wring his gut;  
He looketh blue under the eyes  
And guts do woulfe-like trade that lies  
In watery dike in springs beginning,  
Then have a care of empty lining;  
You never shall answer half so much  
To fill as he shall that day grudge  
To stuff his chitterling so well  
That they no tales of fasting tell.  
I heard rich Mortal had a pig  
A present sent to him so big  
That he to eat it was unwilling.  
But strove to sell it for five shilling,  
The pig was sent him with the tail,  
But in the market that must fail  
For there the mortal would not sell it  
But in his family would spend it  
But bade his man to have a care  
To seled where he might have his share  
The body of the pig was sold  
But powdering Tub the tail did hold;  
The powdering Tub which had not seen  
So much as rump of goose so green  
In twice ten year (Tubteny did say)  
Would well have served late priests to pray,  
Such as from Cobbler's stalls have crept,  
And in obedience Sisters kept  
Their members all which due are spread  
To rub and chafe when they're in bed.  
For after exercise in Tub  
Their Sister's cause their Priests to rub  
That they their teachers might restore  
For doctrine given in before.  
But leaving brother to expound  
Dark place and mystery prefound,  
I now intent to bend discourse  
To mortal fat as pompred horse.  
They commonly that are so fat  
No parents are of Witches plot.  
Alas they only do take care  
To keep their ribs from being bare,  
And that is done by exercise  
Of little bones beneath their eyes,  
Bones that will trundle a whole mile  
While all the body rests the while  
Yet we have fools within our Nation  
Let strangers pull them out for fashion  
Bones unto men of precious use,  
That squeeze all fat, all ripes to juice,  
That man that truly loves his belly,  
To part with them is loath I tell ye;  
He doth as hihly prise those bon●…  
As Ladies do those precious stones  
Which nature made not to adorn her  
So much as please her in a corner.  
These bones in English have name  
Which Monsieurs raised have to fame.  
A single one is called a Tooth  
From whence Tooth-drawer comes forsooth  
But of Tooth drawers Pray know this.  
The French the most esteemed is;  
He doth as much by touch of finger  
As fignres do for figure flingers.  
But all the learned know that they  
Do but pretend to what they say.  
Your French Tooth drawer if you observe  
Looks as if he himself did starve  
To fat his horse, which drew as much  
As Mounsiers self doth by the touch;  
For Mounsiers horse whose hooves are horns  
While he cures Teeth the Jade cures Corns.  
I see a Porter who stood by  
To see monsieur draw's mouth awry  
And pull from well ground. Butcher's gum  
A hollow Tooth bigger then's thumb;  
A Tooth I'll warrant in time hath ground  
Of fly blown beef, many a pound;  
A Tooth had some well minded Glutton  
But such a phang he'd tue the mutton;  
Porter that stood this sight to see  
Had come on too most certainly,  
The Mounsiers horse as if jade knew  
The malady which on toe grew,  
Removed his foot, and set it down  
Upon the toe of gazing clown;  
Porter at tread of horse did squeak,  
But jade had gi'en his corn a tweak.  
Just as the Butcher's money paid,  
The Porter's cure of corn was made;  
He needs must be rid of his corn,  
For toe from his foot was torn.  
When Porter gins to complain,  
monsieur to spur his horse was feign,  
So rides away, sans all remorse,  
Bidding the Porter kiss his arse.  
Porter was lame, and could not follow,  
But aloud gins to hollow;  
But we leave Porter for to howl,  
Till we return to our fat soul;  
For this is quite against profession  
Of mine to make so large digression.  
But now, for rules before we eat,  
And how to choose right battning meat,  
For spoon-meat, barleybroth and jelly,  
Very good is for the belly.  
For morning's draught your north down-ale  
Will make you oilily as a Whale;  
But he that will not out flesh wit  
Must at the good Canary sit;  
For 'tis a saying very fine  
Give me the fat man's wit in Wine:  
For he's as merry as wean'ling Pig  
That to the Hoggs-trough dances Jig.  
Your beef, your pork, your veal, your mutton  
So it be good as knife ere cut on;  
Your pigs, your capons, turkeys, coneys,  
Your feeding wight thinks worth his moneys;  
But he whose long t● grow thicker,  
Must mingle with good meat good lquor:  
Your Brawn washed down with Muskadine,  
Will make your cheeks look plump & fine;  
If you would have a double Chin  
Drink no small beer, for that's too thin:  
For he that means to feed his Chaps high,  
Apt is to fall into Dropsy.  
Therefore your high rich wines are fit  
T' augment the flesh and help the wit.  
'Twill make the Buttocks firm as brawn,  
And Skin as pure white as Lawn.  
Turn haunches up with Lady fine,  
And thy fat arse shall hers out shine.  
Feeding and drinking, smooths the skin,  
And makes the plump one moist within.  
Who feeds at Vespers and at Matins  
Their skins as smooth and white as Satins  
Near died; but weaned from the pure Silk  
Of the dead worm (whiter) than Milk.  
As I of feeding much do treat,  
So rules I render after meat.  
When thou from a full meal dost rise,  
Soummer and Urine if though art wise:  
Then pipe of right Varinas take,  
For that doth swift digestion make.  
Then seat thyself in a great Chair,  
And thing called rattling do forbear;  
So shall you fall into sweet nap,  
Shall ease the burden of your lap:  
That you no sooner shall awake,  
But you another Meal may take;  
Or have at least when you do rise  
Passage for dung between your thighs.  
Another precious rule scarce thought on  
By no means here must be forgotten;  
All Vermin which in bed doth creep,  
From thighs and privy members keep;  
For they are creatures break the reft,  
And make men sleep when they should feast;  
Leaving untouched a wholesome coney,  
Which sweeter is to man then money.  
Take woman fat, with a black hair,  
With colour red, and skin that's fair;  
And turn her up, and you shall see  
Such a strong contrarity,  
Of her white thigh and curled black,  
That bordereth about her knack  
Shall please the skilful eye to see  
Of hues, such rare variety;  
For there is black, and blue, and white,  
Ordained for young man's delight.  
I could speak more in praise of these  
Strong harbours for fat crabs and fleas;  
But I must turn and wind my story  
To those by feeding gain their glory.  
And now should I all wild fowl name,  
That add to lusty. Manchers frame;  
I dazzle should the reader's eyes  
To view the name of fowl that fly:  
I will not write of Herne or Bitterne  
Whose claw transends goose-quill or sittern;  
Nor of the partridge, nor the pheasant,  
Meat scarcely known to chaps of peasant;  
Nor of the woodcock nor the widgen,  
Nor the often billing pigeon.  
Nor of the lark, nor the Cock-sparrow  
Whose mettle melts away his marrow.  
I shall want room to write of fish,  
Which often is the fat man's dish;  
Of which the sturgeon and the oyster  
That moveth holy Nun in Cloister,  
And maketh ofttimes aged Friar  
A little of that same desire.  
Oysters are of strong operation,  
Known to both Sexes of our Nation;  
They're fishes of such rare perfection,  
That they in flesh make an erection;  
And gives to mouths wants teeth such strength  
That they le devour a whole yards length;  
Such is keen appetite of nick,  
Although it be a handful thick.  
I must not dwell on watery theme,  
For fear I'm thought too full of phlegm:  
But now I something have to say,  
Of food that helps nature's decay;  
Of which the food springs from the earth  
Suits best to those of humane birth.  
In Indies Eastern occident,  
Theirs fruits that give the taste content.  
Some that have travalled speak of Planton,  
It makes men lusty, women wanton:  
But I believe our English sherrit  
To man or woman adds more spirit.  
But this is clearly my opinion,  
There breeds more sperm of leek and onion;  
Some windy roots we have that swell  
The belly much, helps ne'er a dell  
To procreation, but they  
We mean to east out of our way:  
Of which the turnip and the carot  
Will make some speak like Jay or Parrot.  
It was the judgement of wise Cato,  
That Parsnip did transend Potato;  
He swears that Parsnip more doth merit  
Then the Aringo or the Skerit:  
And yet the Aringo we do see  
Our Ladies much perpetually,  
Which out of fellow-feeling they,  
Do to resist, and to obey.  
Johannes de temboribus,  
Who lived as long as three of us;  
His diet much was on the Parsnip,  
And he did love to give white arsnip:  
In commendations of that root,  
Said it made him ofttimes go tot.  
A Modern writer, to the glory  
Of this brave root tells this true story;  
Which if our Ladies will not eat,  
Will serve to do another feat.  
The story was of a swart Spaniard  
Who seldom had a pendent whinyard;  
But every night did claper-claw  
His wife, that she was almost raw;  
She was so sore and full of pain,  
That she was fore'st for to complain.  
The learned Judges of that Land  
Desired to take each thing in hand:  
But when the Judges understood,  
The matter was of flesh and blood;  
They for the learned Doctors call,  
Who strait appeared in place called Hall:  
Woman that brought her husband thither,  
And was sore in mouth called nether  
Did blush to see the man in gown,  
Fearing the tail would through the town;  
Which shortly afterwards it did,  
For which the woman oft was chid.  
The Doctors gravely, and in quiet,  
Asked him of his usual diet:  
He told them Parsnips was the meat  
Which he most usually did eat;  
By which conjectured 'tis by all,  
No root is more spermatical.  
But now to ease his sore wife's pain,  
A month these roots he must refrain;  
Which willingly my stout Don did,  
And changing food, lay still in bed:  
But she before the month had end  
Presented Parsnips to her friend;  
And then he sell to wont work  
As fierce as a broad shouldered Turk.  
Since Parsnip's such a bathing thing  
That makes both man and woman cling,  
And stick as fast to one another  
As glued boards, why then plump brother  
Eschew not this so lusty food,  
Which both for flesh and pleasure's good.  
Some slight the valour of the fat,  
And say they're good for nought but chat:  
But I a story will unfold  
Shall speak them hardy, stout, and bold.  
Fat mortal into Market comes,  
And spied fat Eels would oil his gums:  
Then strait he hath a longing wish,  
To have those fat Eels in his dish.  
So to the greezy wife that sold 'em,  
And on her short fat knees did hold 'em:  
He asked the price with greedy sense,  
She gripple wench said eighteen pence;  
He in derision offered three,  
So quarrel 'tween them grew to be.  
The peremptory jade did rail,  
Her words did bruise like blows of flail;  
But Apothecary having mettle  
Removed her arse from off the settle:  
And made the whore that sold the Eel  
The wait of hand on bare arse feel;  
For he in Market called Cheapside,  
Smote her blind face, sans nose mouthwide  
Belonged to those unwashed cheeks  
Where Gardner might have planted leeks:  
But one thing more vexed Apothecary  
To see the fishwives arse so hairy.  
But having thus his business done  
Set down, the scold away did run:  
She to revenge this foul disgrace,  
Runs scolding after him apace;  
Poor man affrighted with the din,  
Beshit himself for fear of Quean.  
The lane was narrow where he went,  
He stunk like Alderman in Tent;  
The jade which seldom used to smell  
But what from her own bunghole fell;  
Left off the chase, it was so strong,  
And so returned with the wrong.  
And so I leave her to the scorn  
Of those at Bilingsgate, ducked each morn;  
This for Land-service, which doth show  
Fat men their teeth for valour owe.  
Now for their Sea, of which I'll speak,  
What shall not show their valour weak;  
As horses in storm a Ship doth poise,  
By his resisting waves that rise;  
Let no fond man the truth deride,  
For horse doth make to th' rising side:  
So fat man's bunghole being open,  
keeps say lors all from being a slopen.  
He stench abundant forth doth send,  
Making each boy stand to rope's end;  
By which we find it requisite  
Fat men aboard in storm do shit.  
He that at sun let's out a peck  
Is a prime man to scour a deck:  
Now foryyour female valour I  
Some rare examples shall descry.  
Let us look over the water there,  
Where guts are carried to the Bear:  
I mean that London spoiling burrow,  
Which you to Kent must ride clean through  
Those that so treacherously let in  
Such mortals as make wealth a sin;  
Which for their service late so rare,  
Shall have an ass for their new Mayor;  
But for the Masters of their state  
In this discourse, I'll not relate:  
The wenches with broad haunches I  
Intent in this place to descry;  
Such whose large podes do roar as Loud  
As wind doth in a tall Ships shroud;  
There blasts are such as you with wonder,  
If not beheld, would swear were thunder.  
But when they rain and blow together,  
You never heard such stormy weather;  
Such as will fright the wondering sense,  
And to the Nasus give offence.  
For like the touchhole of a gun,  
The scents presumed from the sun:  
This for the virtue; now the trade  
Of these sweet wives, so roundly made;  
Your neat paunch clenser is a woman  
That spreadeth in the haunch most common.  
Your meat paunch cleanser is Tripe-boyler,  
Which trade is a great finger-foyler.  
But these large wives with hubergums,  
They tongues with railing bruise their gums;  
And bones of arms in skin do rattle,  
When with their wenches they have battle.  
I could more instances recite,  
Of women's valour when they fight,  
But now I mean to leave the theme,  
Of choler mixed with dury phlegm.  
Repeating something of fat squire,  
who always shites when he's in ire.  
The Alderman of our wise Ward,  
Fat as a Bear, or the Bearward,  
which if you name but the word fight  
Immediately it makes him shit.  
Let any man discharge a gun  
And he as soon discharge's tun.  
It is his natural love to fight,  
Makes him so prone & apt to shitting.  
Not altogether of their spleen,  
For all their choler is soon keen.  
Their loves do more abound then spite,  
And they do show it when they shit.  
Fat man and wife together went,  
To cleanse each others fundament.  
For so well grown was either belly,  
They could not do't themselves, I tell ye.  
This I dare boldly say, sans swiving,  
Shitten come shites is love beginning.  
This further know, fat folks do scummer,  
As much as Cows do give in summer.  
And that must be a fruitful tail,  
That at one dunging fills a pail.  
Nor is't amiss that I recite  
The parley that they did use at shit.   

Dialogue.  
Kind words are worth a world of money.  
Qu. Dost thou piss love? Ans. No, I shit honey.  
Such questions would the good man ask,  
When wife was troubled with the lask,  
For she when laskish shit so thin,  
It might have served to shave a chin,  
Some think it needful to be said  
Of love they used to show in bed,  
Large paunches did so shorten arm,  
Own privy members could not warm.  
There sausige plumped fingers ends  
But commonly like loving friends.  
In Winter morning you might catch  
Her hand on Cod, he fing Notch.  
Thus they do keep their fingers warm  
Doing to neither any harm.  
Love in all ages was commended,  
And by Monarchy defended.  
Fat people were the landed themes  
Of Julius Caesar, and King James.  
They keep their minds in such pure quiet,  
Which battens them as much as diet.  
And now I leave the fat folk's friends,  
Which Music maketh at both ends.  
For pode and throat they both extend,  
To make a sweet harmonious end.   
Jeane easy got her a Nag, and a Sledge to the Privyhouse for to slide a, The hole was beshit that she could not sit, but did cack as she lay on her side a; She was not wind, for she sent forth a sound did stretch her fundament wide a.   

On the print of a Lady's foot, cut on the Leads of King's College Chappel, where before she had fallen.  

HEre once my Princess, when we first did meet,  
Made proud the leads, and let them kiss her feet.  
They not contented with a part so small,  
Gave her a slip, and with that slip a fall;  
So did they get the grace to kiss her hand  
A better part than that whereon we stand.   

Bold saucy leads (that as proud cobblers do)  
Durst pass their bounds and touch above the sho;  
But why do I the leads ambition blame?  
Had I been they, I should have done the same;  
Only I would have melted at the meeting,  
And not have hurt her with so hard a greeting.   

But O, what name so bad by which to call,  
Her servants negligence that let her fall;  
Yet this excuse he hath, 'twas rainy weather,  
And this his comfort, they fell both together;  
Such falls before advancement I'd prefer,  
And wish to fall again, so 'ttwere with her.   

But see her triumph where she fell before,  
Her foot stands now engraved & slips no more  
The conquered leads in penance have received  
The print of that whose trust it once deceived  
Ann wounded bears to all posterity  
The punishment of its disloyalty:  
A just requital, only 'twill be said,  
So rare a gem should not be set in lead.    

To a Lady commanding him to write a defiance to Love.  

DO I want torture then that I  
Loves awful power must thus defy?  
Or in old stories do you find,  
That Love is deaf as well as blind;  
Or else do you resolve from hence  
To nonplus my obedience?  
Well then your own command doth move  
Me to blaspheme yourself and love.   

The Defiance.  
Once so foolish too was I,  
To dote on nature's vanity;  
That trifle Woman which they say,  
She made to pass the time away,  
When she had nothing else to do;  
(And faith 'tis very likely too)  
O! I had a tedious fit  
Of love methinks I feel it yet.  
I'll swear it held me half an hour,  
but Cupid now, I scorn thy power.  
Show me in one Lady's eye  
The strength of thy Artillery:  
Show me a cheek where may be seen  
Thy sprightly wanton Magazene,  
Show me a lip that's died in grain  
With the heart's blood of those 't'as slain;   

Yet I have vowed I'll never die  
For that lip, or cheek, or eye.   

Show me a neck, whose milky way,  
View splendour with the King of day:  
Show me a breast darts flames, although  
Itself doth seem composed of snow:  
Show me a belly so divine,  
Thou though a god, wouldst make it thine;   

Yet Cupid, I the same dare tell ye,  
For all this neck, or breast or belly.   

Show me a thigh whose softness can,  
And whiteness baffle Leda's Swan:  
Show me a leg which would invite  
The strictest Hermit to delight;  
Show me a foot whose pretty shape  
〈…〉 commit a ra●e:   

Yet I have void He never die,  
For that foot, or leg or thigh.    

To a Lady on a fall, in which she had almost discovered more than all the World besides could show.  
MAdam, pardon me, whilst I  
Repeat my happy misery,  
How the self same thing did cloy  
With excessive grief and joy.  
How cruel kind fate did me bless  
With fortunate unhappiness.  
A wonder sure before unheard,  
The same thing should be wished and feared.  
Who would not fear to see that fall?  
Who would not wish there to see all?  
'twas such a sight, thus who but sees  
Doth blaspheme thee with his eyes.  
'twas such a sight that Hell defined,  
May truly be said to be blind.  
Cruel hands that were employed,  
In a sin worse than a parricide.  
To keep that hid, which to have seen  
The total sum of bliss had been.  
This in my passion than I swore  
Those hands i'll never kiss no more.  
This anger was true madness, I  
Had thus revenged your injury  
Upon myself, so I had been  
tortured for what I thought your sin.  
You'd use them better for to save  
Yourself, then for to wound your slave.  
Since to hurt yourself, to me  
Was the height of injury.  
But envy sure would never rest  
In so innocent a breast.  
'twas courtesy made you so unkind,  
Lest those Letters should strike me blind  
Which your pure limbs unvaild display,  
(Beams which disgrace the Prince of day.)  
You thus in pity cheat my sight,  
And hid the dangerous delight.  
May he be blind that does not prise  
Such a sight above his eyes.  
You might have spared your pains to hear,  
'twas a very needless care,  
(When the steed's stolen you shut the door,  
Your eyes had struck me blind before.   

On a Knife that cut a Lady's finger.  

THe weapon Salve (as some they say have found  
At distance heals, just so this knife doth wound;  
For all that gash, I felt the greatest smart,  
Cutting your hand, you cut my heart.  
Then let me search my gall that I may see,  
What curses I can muster up for thee.  
Mayst thou be always more abhorred by us,  
Than the keen Knife of Atropus;  
To employ thee may the basest beggar scorn,  
Unless to pair his nails or cut his corn:  
Mayest thou be lost till thou art rusty, then  
By some mechanic Butcher found again;  
And by him kept, only for this intent,   

To rip up guts, and let out excrement:  
But why to curse thee do I keep this stir?  
Briefly, mayest thou ne'er more be used by Her.    

A Description of the miseries of a moneyless Pocket.  
BRing me Raviliac who does defy  
All torments, with such gallant constancy;  
And only with one sudden oh complains,  
When they pour scalding oil into his veins;  
Let his stout heart but feel my pangs alone,  
An empty purse I'll warrant him will make him groan.  
Bring me a Stoic that says flat and plain,  
A wise man knows not so much thing as pain;  
Let me alone to make him change his note,  
And swear a cutpurse worse than a cutthroat.  
The pangs my Mother did with me endure,  
Were not so bad, as to want money sure,  
I'd wish, were I my enemy to nurse,  
May his associate be an empty purse:  
Nor would I any greater crosses crave  
For him, that that he may not crosses have;  
Then to see him I might justly hope,  
Knight of the noble order of the rope.  
For you will find amongst that famous crew  
That make their wills at Hide Park corner few,  
If you examine, but the reason why  
'Twas cause they wanted money they'll reply:  
Nay I have tasted miseries far worse,  
The constant judgements of an empty purse.  
For if I come into a Tavern I,  
Scarce from the Drawer get a by and by;  
To trust one quart I cannot work on Will,  
Though I'd pawn for it all Parnassus hill;  
I offered too my horse, but he swore thus,  
I will not trust one pint of Pegasus:  
From thence to Clavels where I stand at door  
And softly asked Sue, hast thou ere a whore?  
You speak says she as if you had no money,  
Then with a pox I'll help you to a coney.  
If I by chance espy some old Comrade,  
He strait avoides me, as if I had the plague;  
And cause I han't a token with such care,  
Shuns me as if I full of tokens were.  
Now say my rhymes are dull, & you'll say true;  
And are not you as dull to read them too?  
You might conclude before you read a bit,  
That he who money wants, must needs want wit.   

On a London Tailor who spoilt a Commencement Gown in the making.  
HOw is't nine Tailors make a man up when?  
One Tailor is enough to mar nine men;  
And more of women, for their large Vocation  
Acknowledgeth no bounds or limitation:  
Equal to Nature's privilege, which shows  
Variety in our bodies, they in :  
Nay more, a Badgers gate, a flaw or crack  
In any member, or a Lute-case back;  
Takes not so much from man, nor can deface him,  
So as an ill cut Garment can disgrace him.  
In the deep censuring judgements of gay Mutes,  
Who set upon the life and death of suits;  
If this be true, thou neither he nor she,  
In what manner hast thou injured me  
In spoiling of my Gown? the neck too wide,  
Too long before, and then too short o'th' side;  
My sleeves too small to laugh in; then so high  
The wings start up as if they meant to fly:  
Thus to be handled, thus be thumed,  
It makes my Velvet fret, though never gumd.  
But was my Gown cut in this uncouth guise?  
And my Commencement Gown when thousand eyes  
Were brought to gaze, and I to walk mongst those,  
Whose greatest part of brain lies in their :  
Tay lour, I will not damn or curse thee for't;  
Thou dost far the better, but I wish a sort  
Of debtors fail that thou full justly harmed,  
As thou sit'ft now cross legged may'st walk cross armed.  
Many cross stitches mayest thou make, & meet  
Some Ruffians still to cross thee in the street:  
Mayest thou still see thyself when thou shalt look,  
In each thing crossed but in thy credit Book.  
And yet, if in sad silence of the night,  
Thou shalt be hunted by a merry spirit;  
I pray that drawing near thee he may find,  
Crosses each part before but none behind.  
Let Courtiers point a day, and coming then,  
Point thee another day to come again;  
Let fashions never change, let garments wear,  
As long as Coriats' shoes, or men go bear;  
As in their better state and women too,  
As some suppose, they are about to do.  
I cannot wish thee mischief in the wars,  
For thou art skilled in needle scares;  
Yet let thine own goose press thee till thou faint,  
And though I never mean thou shouldst be Saint;  
Let men invoke thy name, though then alone,  
When as there knife is struggling with a bone;  
Farewell, and when thou bringst thy long bill down,  
I'll make't as short as thou hast made my Gown.   

On a Bile.  

LEt others sing of heads and some of cups,  
Of Mars, and Venus, and her after claps;  
I have a subject that gives me more matter,  
Than you, I, or both, know how to utter.  
It is a Bill, what Epithet shall I  
find for to call so dull a creature by?  
Shall I proclaim thee blockhead? and yet call  
Thee so, I can't, thou hast no head at all.  
Couldst thou but get a head, and ripen faster,  
I would not break thy head, but add a plaster:  
Or shall I call thee coward, 'cause I find  
Thee always in one place, and still behind?  
Well, since thou art a coward, prithee play,  
The coward's part, and quickly run away:  
Or shall I call thee ungrateful, vexing me,  
That brought thee up, and breeding gave to thee?   

Yet prithee be not angry O my Bile,  
Thou look'st to have been praised all this while,  
Shall I commend thee then? and so I will,  
Commend thee to the Surgeon and his skill.  
Reader forbear to frown or carp at least,  
For nought but corruption here doth rest:  
Thus do I ease my pains, and when my bile  
Gins to rage, than I oppose my style;  
Thus did that Roman Possidonus stout,  
And Scaliger did thus out brave the gout:    

To a Gentlewoman from her formerly betrothed, but diserted servant, he being invited to the celebration of her Nuptials.  
WHy fair vow-breaker, hath thy sin thought fit,  
I be the cursed example of thy wit,  
As well as scorn? Bad woman, did not I  
Deserve as much as quiet misery?  
Be wise, and trouble not my suffering fit,  
For every sin I have repentance yet,  
Except for loving thee, do not thou press  
My easy madness to a wretchedness;  
So high as that, lest I be driven so,  
As far from heaven as thou art, which I know  
Is not thine aim, for thou hast sinned to be,  
In place as in affection, far from me?  
Was I thy friend or kinsman, had I ought?  
What was familiar with the saving thought,  
A dream, some letters too that scattered lie,  
Neglected records of my misery;  
I know no ich my silent sorrow moves,  
To beg a Bridal-kisse or pair of Gloves:  
Those are the lighter duties which they seek,  
Whose sleeps are sound, and constant as the week  
Is in her course, and never felt the chance  
Of love amiss, but in a dream or trance,  
And waked with gladness; 'tis not so with me,  
My days and nights are twins in misery.  
Invite me first to catch the plague, wish me to be  
A witness to my Mother's infamy;  
Bespeak me to beshamed, cause me to bring  
Myself an Eunuch to a Gossipping.  
Upon record; how desperate wert thou bend  
To invite me to a wedding Compliment?  
Should I come there when that the holy man,  
With his religious Magic hath begun  
To tie thee from me, I might leap into  
A rage, and safely all your lives undo:  
When heaven would be so courteous to disguise,  
The bloodshed with the name of sacrifice;  
Silent as sorrows lodgings had I dwelled,  
Followed with my despair and never felt.  
Anger except in living, hadst thou been  
Content with my undoing, but that's a sin.  
I never shall forgive thee to upbrade,  
A wretchedness which thou thyself hast made:  
Heaven knows I suffered, and I suffered so,  
That by me 'twas infallible to know  
How passive man is, Fate knew not a curse,  
But in thy new content to make it worse;  
And that thou gav'st me when I so low was brought,  
That I knew nought but thee, and then I thought,  
And counted sighs and tears, as if to scan  
The Air and Water which composeth man;  
Diseased I was, diseased, past thine own cure,  
Yet wouldst thou kill what made me to endure:  
My patience, strange murderess would you prove,  
Whether that were as mortal as your love?  
Have women such a way as they can give  
To men denial, and with love to live?  
Why then abhorred reason tell me why,  
Successelesse Lovers do so quickly die?  
And be it so with me; but if a curse  
May first be fastened on thee which is worse,  
Than thy unwept for vow, breach may it come,  
As thy sins heap, may the tedious some,  
Of thy great sins stand centinel to keep  
Repentance from thy thoughts; reach may the sleep  
Be broken as my hopes, 'bove all may he  
Thou choosest husband grow to jealousy;  
Then find it true, and kill thee may the themes,  
On which thy thoughts do paraphrase in dreams.  
Be my sad wrongs, & when some other shall,  
Whom Fate with me hath made Apocryphal  
In loving, stories search and instance forth,  
To damn his Mistress for as little worth;  
Let thy name meet him, under which let be,  
A common place of women's perjury;  
May heavens make all this true, and if thou pray  
Let God esteem it as thou didst the pay  
Of thy last promise; I have said be free,  
This penance done, my day of destiny  
By thee is antedated, but three sighs.  
First I must pay admission to the skies,  
One for my madness to love women so,  
That I could think thee true; the next I'll throw,  
For wronged Lover, that I'll breathe a new;  
The last shall beg my curses be made true.   

Cupid's Holiday.  

LAdies whose marble hearts despise  
Loves soft impressions, whose chaste eyes  
Near shot a glance but might be seen,  
Diana and her maiden's team  
Of icy Virgins hence away,  
Disturb not our licentious play;  
For now Its Cupid's Holiday.   

Go glory in that empty name  
Of Virgin, let your idle flame,  
Consume itself, while we enjoy  
Those pleasures which fair Venus' boy  
Grants to those whose mingled thighs  
Are Trophies of his Victories,  
From whence new pleasures still arise.  
Those only are admitted here,  
Whose loser thoughts ne'er knew of care  
Of man's embraces, whose fair face  
Can give enjoyment such a grace,  
As wipes away that hated name  
Of lust, and calls their Amorous flame,  
A virtue free from fear or shame.  
With them we'll number kisses till  
We pose Arithmetic and fill  
Our hearts with pleasures, till it swells  
Bey and those bounds where blushing dwells.  
Then will we ourselves entomb  
In those Joys which fill the womb,  
Till sleep possesseth Cupid's room.  
At waking no repentance shall,  
With our past sweetness mingle gall;  
we'll kiss again till we restore  
Our strength again to venture more:  
Then we'll renew again our play,  
Admitting of no long delay.  
Till we end our Holiday.    

To his Whore who asked money of him.  
WHat is't that fans my fancies thus?  
So cool of late I'm grown,  
Methinks I'm not so rigorous,  
How quickly I lie alone.  
Nor doth her absence with one sigh bemoan,  
Hence doth this chillness seize my back,  
This frost my blood benumb,  
When I to my Corinna spoke  
To yield to love, she asked of me a sum,  
Would Cupid I had deaf been or she dumb.  
Those glances I adored before,  
How do I now despise?  
'tis money only makes a Whore,  
She's chaste that with a thousand lies,  
For love, at such a one my members rise.  
Let Jove his Danais enjoy,  
Nor envied be for me.  
If ere Jane Shore my Mistress cloy  
It shall be when I'm as old as he,  
Till then, i'll ne'er commit that Simmony.  
If your affection's pelf must imp,  
Go get another friend,  
My pocket ne'er shall be my pimp;  
Nor will I for your love depend  
On dirt, yet no man shall more freely spend;  
No no, I will not rend your bed,  
Nor your smock-tenant be;  
I will not farm your white and red,  
You shall not let your— to me,  
I court a Mistress, not a Landlady.  
Judgement forbids me too (my dear)  
To keep thy love in pay,  
As hence it plainly doth appear;  
Loves a little boy they say,  
And who but fools give children money pray?  
Love's nakedness you do mistake,  
And hence proceeds your fin;  
Which shows he will no money take,  
He hath no purse to put it in;  
Then do it freely or for me go spin.   

On the Soldiers walking in the New Exchange to affront the Ladies.  

I'll go no more to the New Exchange  
There is no room at all,  
It is so thronged and crowded by  
The gallants of White Hall;  
But i'll go to the Old Exchange  
Where old things are in fashion,  
For now the Kews become the shop  
Of this blessed Reformation.  
Come my new Courtiers what d'ye lack,  
Good consciences if you do;  
Here's long and wide the only wear,  
The strait will trouble you.   

You powdersellers here will thrive,  
No customers can you lake;  
Only resolve to change the dye,  
Your powder must be black;  
And with you here, take my advice,  
Get Pistols stead of Puffs;  
Instead of sweet balls, bullets get,  
And gauntlet stead of muffs.  
Come my new Courtiers, etc.   

You that are Ribbon sellers too,  
Your broken trades may patch,  
If you those guegawes can put off  
And barter them for match.  
You that fine Cabinets do sell,  
Your shops and ware may burn,  
Her Ladyship hates all those toys,  
A Snapsack serves her turn.  
Come my new Courtiers, etc.   

You that sell Books I pity most,  
You are undone I see't,  
Unless you will rebellion sell  
At a penny by the sheet:  
If so, you have a thriving trade,  
For Customers go no further;  
For these blood Merchants at dear rates  
Engross all rape and murder.  
Come my new Courtiers, etc.   

Undone, undone Confectioners,  
Alas there is no hopes.  
Unless you will give o'er your trads  
And set up Sutler's shops.  
Your Apricockes, your Ringo roots,  
Your Marmalade will not sell;  
Get you conserveses of bread & cheese.  
You'll bear away the Bell.  
Come my new Courtiers, what dlye lake  
Good Consciences? if you do,  
Here's long and wide the only wear,  
The strait will trouble you.    

Another.  

WHy should we not laugh and be jolly,  
Since all the World is mad?  
And lulled in a dull melancholy;  
He that wallows in store  
Is still gaping for more,  
And that makes him as poor  
As the wretch that ne'er any thing had.   

How mad is that damned money-monger?  
That to purchase to him and his heirs  
Grows shriviled with thirst and hunger;  
While we that are bonny  
Buy Sack with ready money,  
And ne'er trouble the scriveners nor Lawyers.   

Those guts that by scraping and toiling,  
Do swell their revenues so vast,  
Get nothing by all their turmoiling,  
But are marks of each Tax  
While they load their own backs  
With the heavier packs,  
And lie down galled and weary at last.   

While we that do traffic in tipple,  
Can baffle the Gown and the Sword,  
Whose jaws are so hungry and gripple;  
We ne'er trouble our heads,  
With Indentures or Deeds,  
And our wills are composed in a word.   

Our money shall ne'er indite us,  
Nor drag us to Goldsmith's Hall,  
No Pirates nor wracks can affright us;  
We that have no estates,  
Fear not plunder nor rates  
We can sleep with open gates,  
He that lies on the ground cannot fall.   

We laughed at those fools whose endeavours  
Do but fit them for Prisons and Fines,  
When we that spend all are the saviours;  
For if Thiefs do break in  
They go out empty again,  
Nay the plunderers lose their designs.   

Then let us not think on to morrow,  
But tipple and laugh while we may  
To wash from our hearts all sorrow;  
Those Cormorants which,  
Are troubled with an itch,  
To be mighty and rich,  
Do but toil for the wealth which they borrow.   

The Mayor of our Town with his ruff on,  
What a pox is he better than we?  
He must vale to the men with the buff on;  
Though he Custard may eat,  
And such lubbardly meat,  
Yet our Sack makes us merrier than he.    

The horns a Song.  

BRight Cynthia scorns alone to wear horns  
Unto her great grief and shame;  
And swears by the light, and the world's despite  
That men shall wear the same.   

The man in the Moon to hear this in a swoon  
And quite out of his wits fell;  
And feeling his front, quoth he, a pox on't,  
My forehead gins to swell.   

Away strait he rod, in a lunatic mood,  
And from his Mistress would run;  
And swore in his h●at, though he stood in a sweat  
He had rather go live in the sun.   

But he was well appeased that it other men pleased  
For no man did mutter or mourn;  
But without all affright, and a great delight  
Did take to themselves the horn.   

The Lord he will go, in his woods too & fro,  
Pursuing a do that is barren;  
But while he's in his Park, another in the dark  
May safely go hunt in his warren.   

The Citizen clown, in his furr-faced Gown,  
And his doublet faced with Ale;  
Talks short, but drinks thicker, while his wife like his liquor  
Leaves working and relish th' stolen.   

Lo thus she behornes him, & afterward scorns him  
Though he comes to be Mayor of the rout;  
And holds it no fin, to be occupied within,  
Whiles her husband is bufied without.   

The Physician will ride, to his patient that died  
Of no sickness but that did come;  
But whilst abroad he doth kill, with portion & ●ill  
His wife takes a glister at home.   

The Lawyer to secure him with parchment and buc●●●m  
To London the next term will ride;  
To open his case, in his adversaries face,  
While his wife to his friend doth the like.   

Seven miles too an fro, the professor will go  
To hear a sanctified brother;  
But while his zeal burns, his wife she up turns  
The whites of her eyes to another.   

The Merchant he runs, o'er Seas with his guns  
His Mariners and his Mates;  
But whilst he doth please himself on the seas,  
Another may ride in his straits.   

The Soldier will go like a man too and fro,  
With a full resolution to fight;  
While his wife with her friend, in her wanton arms penned  
Doth make a boon boy before night.   

And although that he be well armed cap ape  
He must yield to a naked boys scorn;  
Or instead of bright Steel, or Iron on his heel  
Be content with a Helmet of hor●…   

Thus each their wives love still, though they do prove  
Them to be false in their own sight;  
But indeed you do well, the horn (you can tell)  
Was never a friend to the light.   

A Beggar got a baliff,  
A baliff got a yeoman,  
A yeoman got a prentice,  
A pretise got a freeman.  
A freeman got a master,  
And he begot a Tease;  
And so become a Gentleman  
Then a Justice of Peace.   

This Justice got a daughter,  
And she is come to light,  
She stepped to the Court  
And there she got a Knight.  
A Knight got a Lord,  
A Lord an Earl begot,  
An Earl got a Duke,  
This Duke he was a Scot   

This Duke a Prince begot,  
A Prince of royal hope,  
He begot the Emperor,  
T●● Emperor got the Pope.  
The Pope got a bastard,  
He was a noble spark,  
He lay with a Nun, and so begot a Clerk:   

A clerk got a sexston,  
A sexston got a vicar,  
A vicar got a parson,  
A parson got a vicar.  
And they were all made prebends,  
And so they got a Dean,  
A deane got a Bishop,  
A Bishop got a quean.   

A quean got five shillings,  
Five shillings got a smock,  
That got a scotch prick,  
And there he got a pock.  
A Merchant got the pock,  
And set it in a Ring,  
And gave it to a Lady,  
That laid it to her thing.   

That gave it to her page,  
That gave it to his master,  
That sent for the Surgeon,  
And laid to it a plaster.  
The plaster was too hot,  
It bred to him much pain,  
A nach was in his—  
And so this man—    

To his Mistress denying him to lie with her.  
HAte me dear soul, and say no more you love,  
If I must only know what is above;  
To kiss your lips & hands, these be but toys,  
And torments to a Lover, and not joys.  
I hate the wanton folly of a kiss,  
If not a passage to a further bliss;  
Men do seek Mines in women, and if so,  
You must give leave to them to dig below:  
The barren face of earth, since nature's arts,  
Hath hid such treasures in the lower parts;  
Why you so coy? you'd feign be married  
Before that you would lose your maidenhead;  
Then may I claim it as my right and due,  
The Law, doth give it me; it is not you.  
If you would have your kindness to be shone  
Bestow it freely while it is your own.   

Upon a Christmas Dinner in a Prison.  
HOld hoops and hinges, burst not I beseech  
Your ribs with laughing, at my hungry speech;  
Hold fast, be sure with both your hands for fear  
Your sides should burst and spoil your hungry cheer.  
Listen you Plumbroth Bolchins to the fate,  
Of a distressed prisoner, you that sat  
And lad your gorgeous maws with stately chines,  
And lusty gamones, while poor virtue pines;  
Feeding on nothing but thin contemplation  
And barren thoughts; pity the sad relation  
Of the cold feast I kept on Christmas last,  
More justly may I call't a solemn fast:  
When all your mouths in an united motion  
At meat, walked faster than at your devotion  
Of morning prayers; I unthought of lay  
In a dark sullen Chamber where the day  
Seemed but a clear night; nor could I get,  
To satisfy poor nature one small bit.  
It would have turned the stomach of a cook,  
With grief, to see how piteous I did look.  
The little animals did skip and trice  
About my musty Cell, yelped mice;  
Alas thought they, will no one us befriend,  
So much as with a Christ mas Candles end:  
Well far the Chandler's wife, & may she bear  
Each year a Chubb, we pray thee nature where  
The Midwife leaps to see about the house,  
A Groaning-Cheese delivered of a mouse:  
These in my Conscience if they could have spoke,  
Had sung the lamentations for my sake,  
Though I deserved no love; for, for my part,  
I could have eaten them with all my heart.  
I wished myself a prisoner in the Tower,  
For its allowance sake for half an hour;  
A Judge's tongue, sopped in his greasy hand,  
‛ Had been the choicest morsel in the Land.  
The picking of his teeth too, had been rare;  
But that so often licked with lies they are  
A tender Courtier, though scarce sound, withal  
I could have swallowed up  legs & all;  
But for a fear, grant pumped & storm & wind  
This roguish bit i'd eat, and had combined  
His carcasle still; & swallowed whole the evil,  
Sending his soul the backway to the devil:  
I do believe (such was my hunger's force)  
I could have eaten my L. Mayor's great horse.  
Thus well nigh famished with conceit I lay,  
Sriving to sleep, and so forget the day;  
But I no sooner half asleep could be,  
But strait my entrails crooked, & wakened me:  
Silence quoth I, you chimes of Christmasnoon,  
And be content to fast with me till soon;  
It may be we shall sup, if not i'll fill  
My belly with a dream, good guts be still;  
But fortune unexpected to prevent  
Despair, aforded me a limb of Lent:  
Sure she had some strange reason in preferring  
Before all meats, a reverend red Hearing.  
I'm loath to tell thee plainly what it was,  
For fear your mouth should water as you pass  
And wrong this harmless paper by its side,  
Lay a neglected crust forth roughly dried;  
That it had been sometime mistake by one,  
That rubbed his boots with't for a pumystone:  
Hard fare, be witness heaven, and my jaws  
That ached, and bled, most freely through the flaws;  
The crust had made upon my tender gums,  
It scoured, I thought 'twas sand, not white bread crumbs:  
This if you will believe a virtuous sinner,  
Was my best fare, for my last Christmas dinner:  
I wish, not having known the like before,  
I may far better next, or ne'er know more;  
Sir since my muse can make no better shift,  
My Christmas dinner be your next years gift.   

Song.  

I Prithee sweet heart grant me my desire,  
For I'm thrown as the old Proverb goes;  
Out of the frying-pan into the fire,  
And there is none that will pity my woes;  
Then hang or drowned thyself my muse,  
For there is not a T. to choose.   

Most maids prove coy of late, though they seem holier,  
Yet I believe they are all of a kind,  
Like will to like, quoth the Devil to the Collier;  
They will prove true when the devil is blind,  
Let no man yield to their desire;  
For the  child still dreads the fire.   

What though my love as white as a Dove is?  
Yet you would say if you knew all within,  
That shitten come shites the beginning of Love is;  
And for her favour I care not a pin;  
No love of mine she ere shall be,  
Sirreverence of your company.   

Though her disdainfulness my heart hath cloven,  
Yet I am of so stately a mind,  
Near to creep into her arse to bake in her oven  
'Tis an old Proverb, that cat will to kind;  
No, I will say until I die,  
Farewell and be hanged, that's twice god buy.   

Alas no rejoicing or comfort I can take,  
In her that regards not the worth of a lover,  
A T. is as good for a sow as a pancake:  
Swallow this Gudging, I'll fish for another;  
She nought regards my aching heart,  
Tell a Mare a tale, and she'll let a fart.   

I am as sure as my shoes are made of leather  
Without good advice, or fortunate helps  
We two shall never set our horses together,  
This is so like a Bear that is robbed of her whelps;  
Therefore of me it shall ne'er be said  
I have brought an old house upon my head.   

Fall back fall edge, I never will bounded be,  
To make a match with tag rag or longtale;  
Best is best cheap, if I miss not the nail;  
Shall I toil gratis in their dirt?  
First they shall do as doth my sh●rte.    

Solicitation to a married Woman.  
THou dost deny me cause thou art a wife,  
Know she that's married lives a single life  
That loves but one; abhor the nuptial curse  
Tied thee to him, for better and for worse.  
Variety delights the active blood,  
And women the more common the more good:  
As all goods are, theirs no Adultery;  
And marriage is the worst monopoly.  
The learned Roman Clergy admits none  
Of theirs to marry; they love all, not one;  
And every Nun can teach you 'tis as meet,  
To change your bedfellow, as smock or sheet:  
Say, would you be content only to eat  
Mutton or beef, and taft no other meat?  
It would grow loathsome to you, & I know,  
You have two pallets, and the best below.   

Tom of Bedlam.  

FRom forth the Elysian fields  
A place of restless souls,  
Mad Maudlin is come, to seek her naked Tom,  
Hell's fury she controls:  
The damned laugh to see her,  
Grim Pluto scolds and frets,  
Caren is glad to see poor Maudlin mad,  
And away his boat he gets;  
Through the Earth, through the Sea, through unknown isles  
Through the lofty skies  
Have I sought with sobs and cries  
For my hungry mad Tom, and my naked sad Tom,  
Yet I know not whether he lives or dies.   

My plaints makes Satyrs civil,  
The Nymphs forget their singing;  
The Fairies have left their gambal and their theft  
The plants and the trees their springing.  
Mighty Leviathan took a consumption,  
Triton broke his organ,  
Neptune despised the Ocean;  
Floods did leave their flowing,  
Churlish winds their blowing,  
And all to see poor Maudlin's action.  
The Torrid Zone left burning,  
The deities stood a striving,  
Despised Jove from Juno took a glove  
And strooke down Pan from whistling.  
Mars for fear lay couching,  
Apollo's Cap was fireed;  
Poor Charles his wain, was thrown into the ma●n,  
The nimble Post lay tired.  
Saturn, Damas', Vulcan, Venus,  
All lay hushed and drunk;  
Hell's fire through heaven was rim,  
Fates and men remorseless, hated our grief & horness,  
And yet not one could tell of Tom.   

Now whether shall I wander?  
Or whether shall I fly?  
The heavens do weep, the earth the air the deep  
Are wearied with my cry.  
Let me up and steal the Trumpet  
That summons all to doom;  
At one poor blast the Elements shall cast  
All creatures from her womb.  
Dyon with his Heptune, Death with destruction;  
Stormy clouds and weather,  
Shall call all souls together  
Against I find In Tomkin i'll provide a pumkin  
And we will both be bliss together.    

A Song.  

SIr Egley More that valiant Knight,  
With his fa, lafoy, lanctre down dill;  
He fetched his sword and he went to fight  
With his fa, lafoy, and his lanctre down dill;  
As he went over hill and dale,  
All clothed in his coat of Male,  
With his fa, lafoy, his fa, lafoy, and his lanctre down dill.   

A huge great Dragon leaps out of his den,  
With his  
Which had killed the Lord knows how many men,  
With his  
But when he saw Sir Egley More,  
Good lack had you seen how this Dragon did roar,  
With his   

This Dragon he had on a plaguy hide,  
With his  
Which could both sword and spear abide,  
With his  
He could not enter with hacks and cuts,  
Which vexed the Knight to the heart blood and guts;  
With his   

All the trees in the wood did shake,  
With his  
Stars did tremble and man did quake,  
With his  
But had you seen how the birds lay peeping,  
'Twould have made a man's heart to a fallen a weeping.  
With his, etc.   

But now it was to late to fear,  
With his  
For now it was come to fight dog, fight bear,  
With his  
And as a yawning he did fall,  
He thrust his sword in hilts and all.  
With his   

But now as the Knight in collar did burn,  
With his  
He owed the Dragon a shrewd good turn;  
With his  
In at his mouth his sword he bent,  
The hilt appeared at his fundament.  
With his   

Then the Dragon like a Coward began to fly  
With his  
Unto his Den that was hard by;  
With his  
And there he laid him down and roared;  
The Knight was vexed for his sword,  
With his   

The Sword it was a right good blade  
With his  
As ever Turk or Spaniard made;  
With his  
I for my part do forsake it,  
And he that will fetch it, let him take it.  
With his, etc.   

When all this was done to the Ale house he went,  
With his  
And by and by his two pence he spent; Dragon,  
With his  
For he was so hot with tugging with the  
That nothing could quench him but a whole Flagon.  
With his   

Now God preserve our King and Queen,  
With his  
And eke in London may be seen,  
With his  
As many Knights, and as many more,  
And all so good as Sir Eglemore.  
With his    

Cupid and the Clown.  

AS Cupid took his bow and bolt  
Some birding for to find,  
He chanced on a Country Swain  
Which was some Yeoman's hind.   Clown. 
Well met fair boy, what sport abroad?  
It is a goodly day;  
The birds will set this frosty morn,  
You cannot choose but slay.  

Go haste, why Sir your eyes be out,  
You will not bird I trow;  
Alas go home, or else I think  
The birds will laugh at you.   Cupid. 
Why man? thou dost deceive thyself,  
Or else my mother lies,  
Who said although that I were blind,  
My Arrows might have eyes.  Clo. 
Why then thy mother is a Fool,  
And thou art but an elf,  
To let thy arrows to have eyes,  
And go without thyself.  Cup. 
Not so Sir Swaine, but hold your peace,  
If I do take a shaft;  
I'll make thee know what I can do;  
With that the ploughman laughed:  
The angry Cupid drew his bow;  Clo. 
For God sake kill me not;  Cup. 
I'll make thy Leatherhead crack.  Clo. 
Nay child be loath of that.  

The stinging arrow hot the mark,  
And pierced the silly soul;  
You might know by his hollow eyes  
Whether love had made the hole.   

And so the Clown went bleeding home,  
To stay it was no boot;  
And knew that he could see to hit,  
Which could not see to shoot.    

A Song.  

SIr Francis, Sir Francis, Sir Francis his son,  
Sir Robert and eke Sir William did come  
And eke the good Earl of Southampton  
Marched on his way most gallantly;  
And then the Queen began to speak:  
You are welcome home Sir Francis Drake;  
Then came my L. Chamberlain, and with his white staff,  
And all the people began for to laugh.    

The Queen's Speech.  

Gallants all of British blood,  
Why do not ye sail on th' Ocean flood?  
I protest youare not all worth a Philberd,  
Compared with Sir Humphrey Gilberd.    

The Queen's Reason.  

For he walked forth in a rainy day,  
To the New found Land he took his way,  
With many a gallant fresh & green;  
He never come home again: God bless the Queen.    

A Song.  

O Thou that sleepest like Pig in straw,  
Thou Lady dear, Arise, Arise, Arise,  
Hoping to keep thy son in awe,  
Thy little twinkling eyes.   

And having stretched both leg and arm,  
Put on thy white smock;  
And for to keep thy body warm,  
Thy Petticoat and Dock.   

The Shops were opened long ago,  
And youngest prentice go ho ho's;  
To lay at's Mistress' Chamber door,  
His Master's shining shoes.   

Arise, Arise, why should you sleep?  
Since you have slept enough;  
Long since French boys cried chimney sweep  
And Damosels Kitchen-sluff.    

A Song.  
NOne but myself my heart do keep,  
As I on Cowslip bed did sleep,  
Near to a pleasant boge;  
Where thou my pretty rogue,  
With knuckles knocking at my breast,  
Did ask for my three-cornered guest;  
And whispering said as soft as voice might be,  
Come forth thou little rogue to me.  
A thousand thousand fiends as black as soot,  
With all their dirty damns to boot  
Take thee, O take thee every day,  
For stealing I and my poor heart away:  
This heart of mine for joy did leap,  
And followed thee even step by step;  
Till tired at the last i'twas, thick and plump, and round before,  
Weighing a full pound weight and more:  
And now it's sunk unto the skin,  
And is no bigger than head of pin.  
A thousand thousand fiends as black as soot,  
With all their dirty damns to boot.   

A Song.  

ANdrew and Maudlin, Rebecca and W●ll,  
Margaret and Thomas, and Jockey & Mary;  
Kate of the Kitchen, and Kit of the Mill:  
Dick the plowboy, and Joan of the Dary,  
To solace their lives & to sweeten their labour  
They met on a time with a pipe and a tabor.   

Andrew was clothed in Shepherds-gray,  
And Will had put on his holyday-Jacket;  
Beck had a Petty coat of Popinga,  
And Meg had a Ribbond hung down to her placket;  
Meg and Moly in fries, Tom and Jack in leather  
And so they began to foot it together.   

Their head and their arms about them they flung  
With all the might & the force that they had  
Their legs were like flails, & as loosely hang;  
For they cudgled their arses as if they'd been mad;  
Their faces did shine, & their fires did kindle,  
And here they did trip it and turn like a spindle.   

Andrew chuckt Maudlin unde the chin,  
Simper she did like a furmity kettle;  
The sound of her blober-lips made such a din  
As if her chaps had been made of bellmettle;  
Kate laughing hearty at the same smack,  
She presently answers it with a bum-crack.   

At no Whitson-Ale where ere you had been  
Such friskets & frekets as those lads & lasses;  
The sweat it run down their faces to be seen,  
And sure much more run down from their arses;  
Nay had you been there, you might well have sworn  
You had never beheld the like since you were borne.   

Here they did fling, and there they did hoyt,  
Here a hot breath, and there went a savour;  
Here they did glance, and there they did lout;  
Here they did simper, & there they did slabor;  
Here was a hand, and there was a placket,  
While their skirts and their breeches went a flicket a flacket.   

The Dance being ended, they sweat and they stanke,  
The Maidens did smerk, and the young men did kiss 'em;  
Cakes and Ale slew about, they clapped hands and they drunk;  
They laughed and they gigled until they bepissed 'em;  
Thus every young man gave each a green mantle,  
While their breast and their bellies went a pintle a pantle.    

The Reformed University.  

DAme Learning of late is fled the Land,  
Fowl befall her suitors all  
That could in her way no longer stand.  
Diogenes come, seek up and down  
At noon bright, with lantern and light  
To see if she be hid under a Gown.  
Thus the whole University pry,  
From the grand Doctor to the small fry  
Peep here, and peep there, the devil a scholar you'll spy.   

The freshman that before he has eaten,  
All to gabbles his Predicables,  
Breaks his fast upon buttered Seaton:  
Who when he comes home to his mother confut's her  
Talking bigger of casting a figure  
In conjuring Sophoms, made by his Tutor.  
Thus the whole University pry, etc.   

The Soph when speech extempore makes,  
Thinks he flies in the skies,  
When a jest in false Latin he makes:  
Then led in triumph to the Sack Tuns  
Thinks it fit to be drunk in wit  
Whilst a tilt the Philosopher runs.  
Thus through the whole University pry, etc.   

The Doctor that comes up with his man,  
Promising Nan to commence if he can,  
And to buy Mistress Doctress a Fan;  
That his wife may sit above and go finer,  
His silver he spends, and his Latin ends  
Venturing far to deny the Minor.  
Thus through the whole University, etc.   

At his Act he was sullen in the fight,  
And would not answer: yet anon, Sir  
He'll invite you kindly at night;  
Though the poor Knight be cast off his crupper,  
And shrewdly fear he has wronged your ears  
He'll make your palate's amends at supper.  
Thus the whole University, etc.   

The Emporik that to kill does his endeavour  
Whilst he framed diseased names  
Able to cast a man into a Fever:  
When he comes to dispute in form and matter,  
Looking as pale as his Urinal  
Shakes his head as he were casting of water.  
Thus the whole University, etc.   

The Lawyer that comes up with his grace,  
Forgetting in haste his Latin is cast,  
And abused into a pitiful case;  
Then vexed with Priscian will not fail  
(Though the action be of Battery)  
To break his head, and cut off his tail.  
Thus through the whole University, etc.   

The Schoolman his time in Nonsense spends,  
Breaks his brain about Captain,  
Sweats to make Scotus & Thomas good friends  
Learnedly scolding with reason doth cuff;  
Without doubt of the truth is out  
And sans question is wise enough.  
Thus the whole University. etc.   

The School Divine that troubles his sense,  
If created he were in Paradise:  
Whether Adam did eat it in innocence;  
If the Apple was pared that was eat at the fall,  
What need they had of a Tailor's trade,  
What thread the fig leaves were sowed withal.  
Thus the whole University, etc.   

The Preacher that with fury doth rush on  
The Pulpit, threats and all to beats  
The threadbare conscience of the poor cushion  
Who from a Cobbler's stall is driven,  
Souls to mend to th' everlasting end,  
And sets 'em upright in the way to heaven.  
Thus the whole University, etc.   

Against the Pope poor man he takes on,  
All Bellarmine thwacks; till his head aches  
Scourging the Whore of Babylon:  
The roast meat suffers for the sinner;  
Till folk devout with the glass run out,  
Swearing 'tis heresy to lose their dinner.  
Thus the whole University, etc.   

The Orator that is bound to wear Satin  
With his tantums, and his quantums  
On Tully's head feizes a part of his Latin:  
With a Rhetoric cringe to Ambassadors prat,  
In Metaphor fine with Trope divine;  
With a high timbered stile, and a stately gate.  
Thus the whole University, etc.   

And to the Chancellor makes a great face  
Swelled in puft-paste of Eloquence vast;  
The phrases in Godwins Antiquities trace.  
With ale-conceit like a herring bloat,  
With a candied voice, and action choice,  
Like a Gentleman with a burr in his throat.  
Thus the whole University, etc.   

The Poet that with the Nine Muses lies,  
Till he betrays some bastard plays,  
And undoes the College with Comedies.  
Though he anew translate the Psalms,  
Sings painted lays for holidays;  
Abuses devotion in Epigrams.  
Thus the whole University, etc.   

The Schoolmaster that makes many a Martyr,  
Boys can teach, and to women preach,  
For his half Crown once in a quarter:  
He lays about like a Demi-God,  
Picking riches out of their breeches,  
With a construing face, and a piercing rod.  
Thus the whole University, etc.   

The Freshman is simple, the Soph to ,  
The Philosopher sad, the Poet mad;  
The Physician weak, the Lawyer false,  
The Orator cold, the Preacher too hot;  
The Master of the school, & 's man a fool,  
The Divine too curious, & Doctor a sot.  
Thus through the whole University pry,  
From the grand Doctor to the small fry,  
And peep here, and peep there, the devil a scholar you'll spy.    

The shiftless Student.  

IN a Melancholy study,  
None but myself,  
Me thought my muse grew muddy,  
After seven years reading,  
And coftly breeding  
I felt but could find no pelf.  
Into learned wrags I have rend my plush and fatten,  
And now am fit to beg in Hebrew, Greek, & Latin;  
Instead of Aristotle would I had got a patent.  
Alas poor scholar! whether wilt thou go?   

Cambridge now I must leave thee  
And follow Fate,  
College hopes deceive me;  
I oft expected  
To have been elected,  
But desert is reprobate.  
Masters of Colleges have no common graces,  
And those that have fellowship have but common places,  
And those that scholars are they must have handsome Faces.  
Alas, etc.   

I have bowed, I have bended,  
And all in hope  
One day to be befriended;  
I have preached, I have printed,  
What e'er I hinted  
To please our English Pope.  
I worshipped toward the East but the sun does now forsake me,  
I find that I am falling the Notherens winds do shake me;  
Would I had been upright, for bowing now will break me.  
Alas poor scholar! etc.   

At great preferment I aimed  
Witness my silk,  
But now my hopes are maimed;  
I looked lately  
To live most stately  
On a Dairy of Bellropes-milk.  
But now alas! myself I must not flatter;  
Bigamy of steepls is grown a hanging matter,  
Each man must have but one, and Curates will grow fatter.  
Alas! etc.   

Into some Country Village  
Thither will I go,  
Where neither tith, nor tillage  
The greedy Patron,  
And parched Matron  
Swear to the Church they owe.  
These if I can preach, & pray too on a sudden  
And confute the Pope at adventures without studying,  
Then ten pounds a year, beside a sunday pudding.  
Alas! etc.   

All the Arts I have skill in  
Divine and humane  
Are not worth a shilling:  
When the women hear me,  
They do but jeer me,  
And say I am profane.  
Once I remember I preached with a weaver,  
I quoted Austin, he quoted Dod & Cleaver;  
I nothing got, he got a cloak and beaver.  
Alas! etc.   

Ships, ships, ships, I discover  
Crossing the main;  
Shall I in, and over,  
Turn Jew or Atheist,  
Turk or Papist,  
To Geneva or Amsterdame?  
Bishoprics are voiding, Scotland, shall I thither  
Or follow Windebank, or Finch to see if either  
Do want a Priest to shrieve them? O no 'tis blustering weather!  
Alas! etc.   

Ho, Ho, Ho, I have hit it,  
Peace goodman fool  
Thou hast a trade will fit it;  
Draw thy Indenture,  
Be bound at adventure  
An aprentise to a free-school.  
There thou mayst command by William Lillys Charter;  
Their thou mayst whip, strip, hang and draw, and quarter;  
And commit to the red rod, both Tom, and Will, and Arthur.  
I, I, 'tis thither, thither will I go.    

The Townsman's Petition to the King that Cambridge might be made a City.  

NOw Scholars look unto it,  
For you will all be undone,  
For the last week you know it  
The Townsmen rid to London.  
The Mayor if that he thrives,  
Has promised on his word,  
The King a pair of knives  
If he'll grant him a sword;  
That he may put the Beadles down,  
And walk in worship here;  
And kill all Scholars in the Town  
That thus do domineer.   

And then unto the Court  
They do themselves repair,  
To make the King some sport,  
And all his Nobles there.  
He down upon his knee,  
Both he and they together;  
A sword he cries (good King) give me  
That I may cut a feather.  
There's none at all I have at home  
Will fit my hand I swear;  
But one of yours will best become  
A sword to domineer.   

These scholars keep such reaks,  
As makes us all afraid;  
For if to them a Townsman speak  
They will pull off his beard.  
But if your Grace such licence gives,  
Then let us all be dead;  
If each of us had not as lief  
He should pull of his head.  
They call us silly Dunkirks too,  
We know not why nor where;  
All this they do, and more than this,  
'Cause they will domineer.   

A speech, if I do make,  
That has much learning imed;  
A scholar comes and takesed  
And sets it out in print.  
We dare not touch them for our lives;  
(Good King have pity on us)  
For first they play upon our wives,  
And then make Songs upon us.  
Would we had power to put,  
And turn on them the jeer!  
Then we'd do the best we could  
But we would domineer.   

They stand much on their wit;  
We know not what it is:  
But surely had we like it,  
We had got some ere this.  
But since it will no better be,  
we are constrained to frame,  
Petitions to your Majesty  
These witty ones to tame.  
A sword would sear them all (I say)  
And put them in great fear;  
A sword therefore (good King) we pray,  
That we may domineer.   

Which if your Grace permits,  
We'll make them look about'um;  
But yet they are such pleasant wits  
We cannot live without'um.  
They have such pretty arguments  
To run upon our score;  
They say fair words, & good intents  
Are worth twice as much more:  
And that a Clown is highly graced  
To sit a scholar near;  
And thus we are like fools out faced,  
And they do domineer.   

Now if you will renew,  
To us your Grace's Charter;  
We'll give a ribbond blew  
To some Knight of the Garter:  
A cap also we want,  
And maintenance much more;  
And yet these scholar's brag & vaunt  
As if they had good store.  
But not a penny we can see,  
Save once in twice seven year;  
They say it is no policy  
Dunkirks should domineer.   

Now reason, reason cries alas!  
Good Lordlings mark it well;  
A scholar told me that it was  
A perfect parallel.  
There case and ours so equal stands,  
As in a way-scale true;  
A pound of Candles in each hand  
Will neither higher show.  
Then prithee listen to my speech,  
As thou shalt after hear:  
And then I doubt it not (my Liege)  
But we shall domineer.   

Vice-chancellours they have,  
And we have Majors wise;  
With Proctors, and with Taskers grave  
Our Bailiffs we may seize.  
Their silver staves keep much ado,  
Much more our silver Maces;  
And so methinks our Sergeants too  
Their Beadle-squires out faces.  
And if we had a sword I think,  
Along the street to bear;  
'Twould make the proudest of'em shrink  
And we should domineer.   

They have Patrons of Nobility,  
And we have our partakers:  
 Doctors of Divinity,  
And we our basket-makers,  
Their heads our Brethren dear,  
Their Fellows our householders;  
Shall match them, & we think to bear  
Them down by head and shoulders.  
A Sword therefore good King, we pray  
That we may ●…p them there;  
Since every dog must have his day,  
Let us once domineer.   

When they had made the King to laugh  
And see one kiss his hand,  
Then little mirth they make, as if  
His mind they understand.  
Avoid the room an Usher cries,  
The King would private sup;  
And so they all came down like fools  
As they before went up.  
They cried God bless his Majesty,  
And then no doubt (they swear)  
They'll have the Town made a City,  
And there to domineer.   

But wots you what the King did think,  
And what his meaning was;  
I vow unto you by this drink  
A rare device he has.  
His Majesty has penned it,  
That they'll be ne'er the better;  
And so he means to send it  
All in a Latin letter;  
Which when it comes for to be read,  
It plainly will appear;  
The Townsmen they must hang the head,  
And the scholars must domineer.    

The draining of the Fens.  

THe upland people are full of thoughts,  
And do despair of after-raine;  
Now the sun is robbed of his morning's draughts  
They're afraid they shall never have shower again.  
Then apace, apace drink, drink deep, drink deep,  
Whilst 'tis to be had lets the liquor ply;  
The drainers are up, and a coil they keep,  
And threaten to drain the Kingdom dry.   

Our smaller rivers are now dry land,  
The eyes are turned to serpents there;  
And if old father Thames play not the man  
Then farewell to all good English beer.  
Then apace, apace drink, etc.   

The Dutchman hath a thirsty soul,  
Our Cellars are subject to his call:  
Let every man than lay hold on his boul  
'tis pity the German-Sea should have al.  
Then apace, apace drink, etc.   

Our new Philosophers rob us of fire.  
And by reason do strive to maintain that theft;  
And now that the water gins to retire  
We shall shortly have never an Element left.  
Then apace, apace drink, etc.   

Why should we stay here then and perish with thirst?  
T' th' new world in the Moon away let us go;  
For if the Dutch Colony get thither first  
'Tis a thousand to one but they'll drain that too.  
Then apace, apace drink, etc.    

Nonsense.  

OH that my Lungs could bleat like buttered pease;  
But bleating of my lungs hath caught the itch,  
And are as mangy as the Irish-Seas,  
That doth engender windmills on a Bitch.   

I grant that Rainbows being lulled asleep,  
Snort like a woodknife in a Lady's eyes;  
Which makes her grieve to see a pudding creep  
For creeping puddings only please the wise.   

Not that a hard row'd-herring should presum  
Too swing a tithe pig in a Cateskin purse;  
For fear the hailstons which did fall at Rome  
By lesning of the fault should make it worse.   

For 'tis most certain Winter woolsacks grow  
From geese to swans, if men could keep them so,  
Till that the sheep shorn Planets gave the hint  
To pickle pancakes in Geneva print.   

Some men there were that did suppose the sky  
Was made of Carbonadoed Antidotes;  
But my opinion is a Whales left eye,  
Need not be coined all King Harry groats:   

The reason's plain for Charon's western barge  
Running a tilt at the subjunctive mood,  
Beckoned to Bednal green, & gave him charge  
To fasten padlocks with Antarctic food:   

The end will be the Millponds must be laded,  
To fish for whitepots in a Country dance;  
So they that suffered wrong & were upbraded  
Shall be made friends in a lefthanded trance.    

In praise of Ale.  

WHenas the Chilehe Rocko blows,  
And Winter tells a heavy tale;  
When Pies and Daws & Rooks & Crows,  
Sat cursing of the frosts and snows;  
Then give me Ale.   

Ale in Saxon Rumken then,  
Such as will make grim Malkin prate;  
Rouseth up valour in all men,  
Quickens the Poet's wit and pen,  
Despiseth Fate.   

Ale that the absent battle fights,  
And frams the march of Swedish drums;  
Disputes the Prince's Laws and rights,  
And what is past and what's to come,  
Tells mortal wights.   

Ale that the Ploughman's heart up keeps,  
And equals it with Tyrant's thrones;  
That wipes the eyes that over weeps,  
And lulls in dainty and secure sleeps,  
His wear'ed bones.   

Grandchild of Cores, Barlies Daughter,  
Wines Emulus neighbour, if but stolen;  
Innobling all the Nymphs of water,  
And filling each man's heart with laughter;  
Ha', ha', give me Ale.    

A Riddle of a Goosbery.  

THere is a Bush fit for the once,  
That beareth pricks and precious stones,  
The fruit of which most Ladies pull;  
'Tis round and smooth and plump and full:  
It yields rare moisture pure and thick,  
And seldom makes a Lady sick;  
They put it in, and then they move it,  
Which makes it melt, and then they love it:  
So what was round and plump and hard,  
Grows lank and thin, and poor and marred;   

The sweetness sucked, their holes wipe they  
And throw the empty skin away.    

A Bull Prologue.  
YOu that do fitting stand to see our Play  
Which must this night be acted, here to day,  
Be silent prey; though you aloud do talk  
Stir not a foot, though up & down you walk;  
For every silent noise the Players see  
Will make them mute, & speak full angrily;  
But go not yet, until you do departed  
And unto us your smiling frowns impart;  
And we most thankless thankful will appear  
And wait upon you home; but yet stay here.   

Another Prologue.  
BE blithe Fopdodles! for my Author knows  
How to delight your eyes, your ears, your nose;  
But first of all your eyes shall pleased be  
With cloth of Gold, tissue and Taffate:  
Blow but your nose, and purify that sense,  
For you shall smell perfumes & frank incense  
And eke soft music: therefore fit you still,  
Smile like the Lily flower, whilst trumpets sound,  
And our endeavours with your love be crowned.   

An Epilogue upon the honest Lawyer.  
Gentlemen,  
He that wrote this Play ne'er made Play before  
And if this like not, ne'er will write Play more  
And so he bid me tell you.   

A Resolution not to Marry.  
IF she be fair, I fear the rest,  
If she be sweet, I'll hope the best;  
If she be fair, they'll say she'll do,  
If she be foul she'll do so too.  
If she be fair she'll breed suspect,  
If she be foul, she'll breed neglect.  
If she be borne of the better sort,  
Then she doth savour of the Court;  
If she be of the City borne,  
She'll give the City arms the horn.  
If she be borne of Parents base,  
I scorn her virtues for her place;  
If she be fair and wirty too,  
I fear the harm her wit may do:  
If she be fair and do want wit,  
I love no beauty without it.  
In brief, be what she will I'm one,  
That can love all, but will wed none.   

Love's Progress.  
WHo ever loves, if he do not propose  
The right true end of love; hes one that goes  
To sea, for nothing but to make him sick  
And love's a bear whelp born, if over lick  
Our love; and cause it new strange forms to take  
We err: and of a lump a monster make.  
Were not a Calf a Monster, that was grown  
Faced like a man, though better than his own.  
Perfection is in Unity, so prefer  
One woman first: and then one thing in her.  
I where I value Gold, may think upon  
The dactilenesse, the application;  
The wholesomeness, the ingenuity;  
From rust, from soil, from fire forever free:  
But if I love it, 'tis because its made  
By (our new nature) use, the soul of trade:  
All this in women we might think upon,  
If women had them; and yet love but one.  
Can men more injure women then to say  
They love for that, by which they are not they  
Makes virtue woman? must I cool my blood,  
Till I both find, and see one wise and good?  
May barren Angels love so: But if we  
Make love to woman; virtue is not she;  
As beauty is not, nor wealth; he that strays thus  
From her, to hers; is more Adulterous,  
Then he that took her maid. Search every, sphere,  
& firmament; our Cupid is not there:  
He's an infernal good; and under ground  
With Pluto dwells, where gold & fire abound:  
Men to such gods their sacrificing coals,  
Laid not on Altars, but in pits and holes.  
Although we see Celestial bodies move  
Above the earth, the earth we till and love,  
So we her heirs contemplate; words & heart,  
And virtues: but we love the centrique part.  
Nor is the soul more worthy, or more fit  
For love then that; as infinite as it.  
But in attaining this desired place,  
How much they err, that set out at the face?  
The hair a Forest is of ambushes,  
Of springs, snares, fetters, and manacles:  
The brow becalms us, when 'tis sooth & plain;  
And when 'tis wrinkled, shipwrecks us again:  
Smooth, 'tis a Paradise, where we would have  
Imortal stay: and wrinkled, 'tis our grave.  
The nose like to the first Meridian runs,  
Not twixt an East, & West; but twixt two suns:  
It leaves a cheek a rosey Hemisphere  
On either side; and then directs us where  
Upon the Islands fortunate we fall,  
Not faint Canaries; but Ambrosial,  
Her swelling lips: to which when we are come  
We anchor there, & think ourselves at home:  
For they sing all their Sirens songs; & there  
Wise Delphique Oracles do fill the ear:  
There in a Creek, where chosen Pearls do swell  
The Remora; her cleaving tongue doth dwell.  
Those, and the promontory fair, her chin  
o'er past: and the strait Hellespont, between  
The Sestos and Abydos of her breasts;  
(Not of two Lovers, but two loves the nests)  
Succeeds a boundless Sea; but that thine eye  
Some Island moles may scattered there descry:  
And sailing towards her India in that way,  
Shall at her fair Atlantic Navel stay.  
Though thence the torrent be thy Pilot made;  
Yet ere thou come where thou wouldst be embayed  
Thou shalt upon another forest set:  
Where many shipwreck: and no farther get  
When thou art there. Consider well this chase  
Misspent; by the beginning at the face.  
Rather set out below; practice my art,  
Some simitry the foot hath with that part  
Which thou dost seek; and is as Map for that;  
Lovely enough to stoop, but not stay at:  
Lest subject to disguise, and change it is;  
Men say the Devil never can change his:  
It is the Emblem that hath figured  
Firmness; 'tis the first part that comes to bed.  
Civility we see refined; the kiss  
Which at the face begun, transplanted is  
Since to the hand, since to the Imperial knee,  
Now at the papal foot delights to be,  
If Kings think that the nearer way, and do  
Kiss from the foot, Lovers may do so too.  
For as free Spheres move faster far than can  
Birds; whom the air resists: so may that man  
Which goes the empty, and Aetherial ways;  
Then if at beauty's elements he stays.  
Rich nature hath in women wisely made  
Two purses, and their mouths aversly laid:  
Thus they which to the lower tribute owe,  
That way which that Exchequer looks, must go;  
He which doth not, his error is as great,  
As who by glister gives the stomach meat.  J. D. 
FINIS.