A Song made of Nothing.  
Yet he that doth read, or hear it shall find,  
Something of nothing to pleasure his mind.  
To a dainty New tune.  

 
 
 

SOme men of nothing do matters indite.  
& some men of small things large volumes do write,  
But if you will give me leave I will recite  

A song made of nothing.    

He that has nothing may soon spend all,  
And he that's exalted may have a downfall,  
And he that is weakest may go to the wall,  

But I will say nothing.    

He that presumeth a Gallant to be,  
And spends more in one year than he gets in three,  
Shall beg having wasted his Patrimony,  

But I will say nothing.    

He that has nothing, no credit shall have,  
Although he be virtuous, he's counted a knave,  
Among roaring Gallants that go fine and brave,  

'Cause he can spend nothing.    

He that delights in Cards and in Dice,  
And spends his revenues in such idle vice,  
Shall meet with lewd company him to entice,  

Till he be worth nothing.    

He that hath nothing, with troubles beset,  
Will steal or do something a living to get.  
But if he be caught in the hangman's net,  

His life is worth nothing.    

He that hath nothing, can nothing possess,  
And he that hath little may look to have less,  
But much want and sorrow doth daily oppress  

the man that hath nothing.    

He that will be a good husband indeed,  
That unto his business doth go with good heed,  
Shall still have sufficient to serve him at need,  

And always want nothing.    

He that is married unto a good wife,  
Shall live in content all days of his life,  
But if man and woman be given to strife,  

They'll fall out for nothing.    

He that is idle and will not take pains.  
But honest industry and labour disdains,  
When others true labours are quitted with gains,  

Then he shall have nothing.     

The second part.  
To the same tune.  
 
 
 

HE that in Drunkenness takes his delight.  
To drink and to swagger, to brabble and fight  
He taketh the wrong, and leaveth the right,  

But I will say nothing.    

He that in baseness his time doth here spend,  
That never regards himself nor his friend,  
He standeth in danger to have a bad end,  

But I will say nothing.    

He that takes pleasure to curse, ban and swear,  
With vain execrations his Maker to tear,  
The Lord in his wrath, if he do not forbear,  

will bring him to nothing.    

He that doth ruffle it out in vain pride  
That weareth gay clothes a foul carcase to hide,  
And bears more on's back then he's worth beside,  

I'll trust him for nothing.    

He that delighteth to go to the Law,  
To sue for a trifle that's scarce worth a straw,  
May sue for a Woodcock, and catch a jack-daw  

For all comes to nothing.    

He that his time still carelessly spends,  
And hopes to be rich by the death of his friends,  
The pillar whereon all his hope still depends,  

Perhaps comes to nothing.    

He that deferreth amendment toth' last,  
And seeks not to thrive till all remedie's past,  
If he through his folly behind hand be cast,  

His hopes are worth nothing.    

He that life's uprightly in his vocation,  
And on the distressed hath commiseration,  
That man rightly merits a good commendation  

He's guilty in nothing.    

He that with usury doth money beget,  
And love's that young spendthrifts should be in his debt  
The Devil at last will drag him in's net  

But I will say nothing.    

He that can craftily cousin and cheat,  
To get a base living by fraud and deceit,  
Shall stand on the Pillory to cool his heat,  

But I will say nothing.    

He that is often inclined to quarrel,  
Will bring both himself & his friend in great peril  
But that man is blessed that can wisely forbear ill,  

And learn to say nothing.    

Here you see something of nothing is made.  
For of the word nothing, something is said,  
That man who hath neither wealth, wit, not trade,  

Alas he gets nothing.    

So free me being tedious, I now will refrain,  
And pray for King Charles that long he many reign:  
His foes and all traitors that wish England's bane.  

Good Lord bring to nothing     
FINIS.   

Printed at London for john Wright.