Much , about Nothing: OR, A Song made of Nothing, the newest in Print; He that seriously minds it, will find All-things in't.  

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

On Nothing I think, on Nothing I Writ,  
For Nothing I Covet, yet Nothing I 'Slight,  
And I care not a Pin, if I get Nothing by't.   

Fire, Aire, Earth and Water, Beasts, Birds, Fish and Men,  
Did start out of Nothing, a Chaos, a Den;  
And all things shall turn into Nothing again.   

It's Nothing sometimes that makes many things hit,  
As when a Fool amongst Wise men doth silently sit,  
A Fool that says Nothing, may pass for a Wit.   

What one Man doth love, is another Man's loathing,  
This Blade loves a quick thing, & that loves a slow thing;  
And both in the very Conclusion love Nothing.   

Your Slashing and Clashing, and Flashing of Wit,  
Doth start out of Nothing, but Fancy and Fit,  
It's little or Nothing to what hath been Writ.   

When first we together by the Ears did fall,  
Then Something got Nothing, and Nothing got All,  
From Nothing it came, unto Nothing it shall.   

That Party which Sealed to a Covenant in haste,  
Who made King and Kingdom, and Churches lie waste,  
Their Projects and all came to Nothing at last,   

They raised an Army of Horse and of Foot,  
To tumble down Monarchy, Branch and Root,  
They Thundered & Plundered, but Nothing would do't.   

The Organ and Altar, and Ministers Clothing,  
In Presbyter-Jack did beget such a loathing,  
That he must needs set up a Petty-new- Nothing.   

And when he had Robbed us in Sanctified Clothing,  
And Perjured the People by Faithing and Trothing,  
But at last was Catched, and all came to Nothing.   

Where War and Rebellion, and Plundering grows,  
The Mendicant-man is freest from Foes,  
For he is most Happy, hath Nothing to lose.   

Brave Caesar and Pompey, and Great Alexander,  
Whom Armies did follow, as Goose follows Gander,  
Have Nothing to say to an Action of Slander.   

The wisest great Prince, were he never so stout,  
Can he Conquer the World, and give Mankind a Rout,  
Did bring Nothing in, nor shall bear Nothing out.   

Old Noll that did rise up to high thing, from low-thing,  
By Brewing Rebellion, and Nicking and Frothing,  
In Seven years' distance, was All things and Nothing.   

Dick (oliver's Heir) that pitiful slow-thing,  
Who once was Invested with Purple Clothing,  
Now stands for a Cipher, and a Cipher is Nothing.   

If King-killers are excluded from bliss,  
Old Bradshaw (that feels the Reward on't by this)  
Had better been Nothing, than what now he is.   

Your Gallant that lives by fine Meat, Drink, & Clothing,  
Who was th' other day, but a pitiful low-thing,  
Pays Butcher, and Baker, and Draper, with Nothing.   

The nimble tongued Lawyer that Pleads for his Pay,  
When Death doth Arrest him, and carry him away,  
At the General Bar, will have Nothing to say.   

If any here tax me with weakness of Wit,  
And say that of Nothing, I Nothing have Writ,  
I shall Answer Ex Nihilo, nihil fit.   

Yet let his Discretion be never so tall,  
This very word Nothing, shall give it a fall,  
For in Writing of Nothing, I comprehend all.   

Let every man give the Poet his due,  
'Cause then 'twas with him, as now it's with you,  
He studied it, when he had Nothing to do.   

This very word Nothing, if took the right way,  
May prove advantageous, for what would you say.  
If the Vintner should tell you, there's Nothing to Pay?    

London, Printed for Tho. Vere at the sign of the Angel, without Newgate. 1664.