Choyce Drollery:Songs & Sonnets.

“Fools from their folly ’tis hopeless to stay!Mules will be mules, by the law of their mulishness;Then be advised, and leave fools to their foolishness,What from an ass can be got but a bray?”

“Fools from their folly ’tis hopeless to stay!

Mules will be mules, by the law of their mulishness;

Then be advised, and leave fools to their foolishness,

What from an ass can be got but a bray?”

Always will there be some smilingvirtuosi, here or elsewhere, who can prize the unreal toys, and thank us for retrieving from dusty oblivion a few more of these early Pastorals. When too discordantly the factions jar around us, and denounce every one of moderate opinions or quiet habits, because he is unwilling to become enslaved as a partisan, and fight under the banner that he deems disgraced by falsehoodand intolerance, despite its ostentatious blazon of “Liberation” or “Equality,” it is not easy, even for such as “the melancholy Cowley,” to escape into his solitude without a slanderous mockery from those who hunger for division of the spoil. Recluse philosophers of science or of literature, men like Sir Thomas Browne, pursue their labour unremittingly, and keep apart from politics; but even for this abstinence harsh measure is dealt to them by contemporaries and posterity whom they labour to enrich. It is well, no doubt, that we should be convinced as to which side the truth is on, and fight for that unto the death. Woe to the recreant who shrinks from hazarding everything in life, and life itself, defending what he holds to be the Right. Yet there are times when, as in 1656, the fight has gone against our cause, and no further gain seems promised by waging single-handedly a warfare against the triumphant multitude. Patience, my child, and wait the inevitable turn of the already quivering balance!—such is Wisdom’s counsel. Butler knew the truth of Cavalier loyalty:—

“For though out-numbered, overthrown,And by the fate of war run down,Their Duty never was defeated,Nor from their oaths and faith retreated:For Loyalty is still the sameWhether it lose or win the game;True as the dial to the sun,Although it be not shone upon.”

“For though out-numbered, overthrown,

And by the fate of war run down,

Their Duty never was defeated,

Nor from their oaths and faith retreated:

For Loyalty is still the same

Whether it lose or win the game;

True as the dial to the sun,

Although it be not shone upon.”

Some partizans may find a paltry pleasure in dealing stealthy stabs, or buffoons’ sarcasms, against the foes they could not fairly conquer. Some hold a silent dignified reserve, and give no sign of what they hope or fear. But for another, and large class, there will be solace in the dreams of earlier days, such as the Poets loved to sing about a Golden Pastoral Age. Those who best learnt to tell its beauty were men unto whom Fortune seldom offered gifts, as though it were she envied them for having better treasure in their birthright of imagination. The dull, harsh, and uncongenial time intensified their visions: even as Hogarth’s “Distressed Poet”—amid the squalour of his garret, with his gentle uncomplaining wife dunned for a milk-score—revels in description of Potosi’s mines, and, while he writes in poverty, can feign himself possessor of uncounted riches. Such power of self-forgetfulness was grasped by the “Time-Poets,” of whom our little book keeps memorable record.

So be it, Cavaliers of 1656. Though Oliver’s troopers and a hated Parliament are still in the ascendant, let your thoughts find repose awhile, your hopes regain bright colouring, remembering the plaints of one despairing shepherd, from whom hisChlorisfled; or of that other, “sober and demure,”whose mistress had herself to blame, through freedoms being borne too far. We, also, love to seek a refuge from the exorbitant demands of myriad-handed interference with Church and State; so we come back to you, as you sit awhile in peace under the aged trees, remote from revellers and spies, “Farre in the Forest of Arden”—O take us thither!—reading of happy lovers in the pages ofChoyce Drollery. Since their latest words are of our favourite Fletcher, let our invocation also be from him, in his own melodious verse:—

“How sweet these solitary places are! how wantonlyThe wind blows through the leaves, and courts and plays with ’em!Will you sit down, and sleep? The heat invites you.Hark, how yon purling stream dances and murmurs;The birds sing softly too. Pray take your rest, Sir.”

“How sweet these solitary places are! how wantonly

The wind blows through the leaves, and courts and plays with ’em!

Will you sit down, and sleep? The heat invites you.

Hark, how yon purling stream dances and murmurs;

The birds sing softly too. Pray take your rest, Sir.”

J. W. E.

September 2nd, 1875.

ChoyceDROLLERY:SONGS & SONNETS.

BEINGA Collection of divers excellentpieces of Poetry,OFSeverall eminent Authors.

Never before printed.

LONDON,Printed byJ. G.forRobert Pollard, at theBen. Johnson’shead behind the Exchange,andJohn Sweeting, at theAngelin Popes-Head Alley.1656.

Courteous Reader,

Thy grateful reception of our first Collection hath induced us to a second essay of the same nature; which, as we are confident, it is not inferioure to the former in worth, so we assure our selves, upon thy already experimented Candor, that it shall at least equall it in its fortunate acceptation. We serve up these Delicates by frugall Messes, as aiming at thy Satisfaction, not Saciety. But our designe being more upon thy judgement, than patience, more to delight thee, to detain thee in the portall of a tedious, seldome-read Epistle; we draw this displeasing Curtain, that intercepts thy (by this time) gravid, and almost teeming fancy, and subscribe,R. P.

R. P.

1.Deare Love let me this evening dye,Oh smile not to prevent it,But use this opportunity,Or we shall both repent it:Frown quickly then, and break my heart,That so my way of dyingMay, though my life were full of smart,Be worth the worlds envying.2.Some striving knowledge to refine,Consume themselves with thinking,And some who friendship seale in wineAre kindly kill’d with drinking:And some are rackt on th’ Indian coast,Thither by gain invited,Some are in smoke of battailes lost,Whom Drummes not Lutes delighted.3.Alas how poorely these depart,Their graves still unattended,Who dies not of a broken heart,Is not in death commended.His memory is ever sweet,All praise and pity moving,Who kindly at his Mistresse feetDoth dye with over-loving.4.And now thou frown’st, and now I dye,My corps by Lovers follow’d,Which streight shall by dead lovers lye,For that ground’s onely hollow’d:[hallow’d]If Priest take’t ill I have a grave,My death not well approving,The Poets my estate shall haveTo teach them th’ art of loving.5.And now let Lovers ring their bells,For thy poore youth departed;Which every Lover els excels,That is not broken hearted.My grave with flowers let virgins strow,For if thy teares fall neare them,They’l so excell in scent and shew,Thy selfe wilt shortly weare them.6.Such Flowers how much willFloraprise,That’s on a Lover growing,And watred with his Mistris eyes,With pity overflowing?A grave so deckt, well, though thou art[? will]Yet fearfull to come nigh me,Provoke thee straight to break thy heart,And lie down boldly by me.7.Then every where shall all bells ring,Whilst all to blacknesse turning,All torches burn, and all quires sing,As Nature’s self were mourning.Yet we hereafter shall be foundBy Destiny’s right placing,Making like Flowers, Love under ground,Whose Roots are still embracing.

Deare Love let me this evening dye,

Oh smile not to prevent it,

But use this opportunity,

Or we shall both repent it:

Frown quickly then, and break my heart,

That so my way of dying

May, though my life were full of smart,

Be worth the worlds envying.

2.Some striving knowledge to refine,Consume themselves with thinking,And some who friendship seale in wineAre kindly kill’d with drinking:And some are rackt on th’ Indian coast,Thither by gain invited,Some are in smoke of battailes lost,Whom Drummes not Lutes delighted.

Some striving knowledge to refine,

Consume themselves with thinking,

And some who friendship seale in wine

Are kindly kill’d with drinking:

And some are rackt on th’ Indian coast,

Thither by gain invited,

Some are in smoke of battailes lost,

Whom Drummes not Lutes delighted.

3.Alas how poorely these depart,Their graves still unattended,Who dies not of a broken heart,Is not in death commended.His memory is ever sweet,All praise and pity moving,Who kindly at his Mistresse feetDoth dye with over-loving.

Alas how poorely these depart,

Their graves still unattended,

Who dies not of a broken heart,

Is not in death commended.

His memory is ever sweet,

All praise and pity moving,

Who kindly at his Mistresse feet

Doth dye with over-loving.

4.And now thou frown’st, and now I dye,My corps by Lovers follow’d,Which streight shall by dead lovers lye,For that ground’s onely hollow’d:[hallow’d]If Priest take’t ill I have a grave,My death not well approving,The Poets my estate shall haveTo teach them th’ art of loving.

And now thou frown’st, and now I dye,

My corps by Lovers follow’d,

Which streight shall by dead lovers lye,

For that ground’s onely hollow’d:[hallow’d]

If Priest take’t ill I have a grave,

My death not well approving,

The Poets my estate shall have

To teach them th’ art of loving.

5.And now let Lovers ring their bells,For thy poore youth departed;Which every Lover els excels,That is not broken hearted.My grave with flowers let virgins strow,For if thy teares fall neare them,They’l so excell in scent and shew,Thy selfe wilt shortly weare them.

And now let Lovers ring their bells,

For thy poore youth departed;

Which every Lover els excels,

That is not broken hearted.

My grave with flowers let virgins strow,

For if thy teares fall neare them,

They’l so excell in scent and shew,

Thy selfe wilt shortly weare them.

6.Such Flowers how much willFloraprise,That’s on a Lover growing,And watred with his Mistris eyes,With pity overflowing?A grave so deckt, well, though thou art[? will]Yet fearfull to come nigh me,Provoke thee straight to break thy heart,And lie down boldly by me.

Such Flowers how much willFloraprise,

That’s on a Lover growing,

And watred with his Mistris eyes,

With pity overflowing?

A grave so deckt, well, though thou art[? will]

Yet fearfull to come nigh me,

Provoke thee straight to break thy heart,

And lie down boldly by me.

7.Then every where shall all bells ring,Whilst all to blacknesse turning,All torches burn, and all quires sing,As Nature’s self were mourning.Yet we hereafter shall be foundBy Destiny’s right placing,Making like Flowers, Love under ground,Whose Roots are still embracing.

Then every where shall all bells ring,

Whilst all to blacknesse turning,

All torches burn, and all quires sing,

As Nature’s self were mourning.

Yet we hereafter shall be found

By Destiny’s right placing,

Making like Flowers, Love under ground,

Whose Roots are still embracing.

Nor Love nor Fate dare I accuse,Because my Love did me refuse:But oh! mine own unworthinesse,That durst presume so mickle blisse;Too mickle ’twere for me to loveA thing so like the God above,An Angels face, a Saint-like voice,Were too divine for humane choyce.Oh had I wisely given my heart,For to have lov’d him, but in part,Save onely to have lov’d his faceFor any one peculiar grace,A foot, or leg, or lip, or eye,I might have liv’d, where now I dye.But I that striv’d all these to chuse,Am now condemned all to lose.You rurall Gods that guard the plains,And chast’neth unjust disdains;Oh do not censure him for this,It was my error, and not his.This onely boon of thee I crave,To fix these lines upon my grave,WithIcarusI soare[d] too high,For which (alas) I fall and dye.

Nor Love nor Fate dare I accuse,

Because my Love did me refuse:

But oh! mine own unworthinesse,

That durst presume so mickle blisse;

Too mickle ’twere for me to love

A thing so like the God above,

An Angels face, a Saint-like voice,

Were too divine for humane choyce.

Oh had I wisely given my heart,For to have lov’d him, but in part,Save onely to have lov’d his faceFor any one peculiar grace,A foot, or leg, or lip, or eye,I might have liv’d, where now I dye.But I that striv’d all these to chuse,Am now condemned all to lose.

Oh had I wisely given my heart,

For to have lov’d him, but in part,

Save onely to have lov’d his face

For any one peculiar grace,

A foot, or leg, or lip, or eye,

I might have liv’d, where now I dye.

But I that striv’d all these to chuse,

Am now condemned all to lose.

You rurall Gods that guard the plains,And chast’neth unjust disdains;Oh do not censure him for this,It was my error, and not his.This onely boon of thee I crave,To fix these lines upon my grave,WithIcarusI soare[d] too high,For which (alas) I fall and dye.

You rurall Gods that guard the plains,

And chast’neth unjust disdains;

Oh do not censure him for this,

It was my error, and not his.

This onely boon of thee I crave,

To fix these lines upon my grave,

WithIcarusI soare[d] too high,

For which (alas) I fall and dye.

One night the greatApollopleas’d withBen,Made the odde number of the Muses ten;The fluentFletcher,Beaumontrich in sense,In Complement and Courtships quintessence;IngeniousShakespeare,Massingerthat knowesThe strength of Plot to write in verse and prose:Whose easie Pegassus will amble oreSome threescore miles of Fancy in an houre;Cloud-graplingChapman, whose Aerial mindeSoares at Philosophy, and strikes it blinde;Danbourn[Dabourn] I had forgot, and let it be,He dy’d Amphibion by the Ministry;Silvester,Bartas, whose translatique partTwinn’d, or was elder to our Laureat:Divine composingQuarles, whose lines aspireThe April of all Poesy in May,[Tho. May.]Who makes our English speakPharsalia;Sandsmetamorphos’d so into another[Sandys]We know notSandsandOvidfrom each other;He that so well onScotusplay’d the Man,The famousDiggs, orLeonard Claudian;The pithyDaniel, whose salt lines affordA weighty sentence in each little word;HeroickDraiton,Withers, smart in Rime,The very Poet-Beadles of the Time:Panns pastoralBrown, whose infant Muse did squeakAt eighteen yeares, better than others speak:Shirleythe morning-child, the Muses bred,And sent him born with bayes upon his head:Deep in a dumpIohn Fordalone was gotWith folded armes and melancholly hat;The squibbingMiddleton, andHaywoodsage,Th’ Apologetick Atlas of the Stage;Well of the Golden age he could intreat,But little of the Mettal he could get;Three-score sweet Babes he fashion’d from the lump,For he was Christ’ned inParnassuspump;The Muses Gossip toAurora’sbed,And ever since that time his face was red.Thus through the horrour of infernall deeps,With equal pace each of them softly creeps,And being dark they hadAlectorstorch,[Alecto’s]And that madeChurchyardfollow from his Porch,Poor, ragged, torn, & tackt, alack, alackYou’d think his clothes were pinn’d upon his back.The whole frame hung with pins, to mend which clothes,In mirth they sent him to old Father Prose;Of these sad Poets this way ran the stream,AndDeckerfollowed after in a dream;Rounce,Robble,Hobble, he that writ so high big[;]Basse for a Ballad,John Shankfor a Jig:[Wm. Basse.]Sent byBen Jonson, as some Authors say,Broomwent before and kindly swept the way:OldChaucerwelcomes them unto the Green,AndSpencerbrings them to the fairy Queen;The finger they present, and she in graceTransform’d it to a May-pole, ’bout which traceHer skipping servants, that do nightly sing,And dance about the same a Fayrie Ring.

One night the greatApollopleas’d withBen,

Made the odde number of the Muses ten;

The fluentFletcher,Beaumontrich in sense,

In Complement and Courtships quintessence;

IngeniousShakespeare,Massingerthat knowes

The strength of Plot to write in verse and prose:

Whose easie Pegassus will amble ore

Some threescore miles of Fancy in an houre;

Cloud-graplingChapman, whose Aerial minde

Soares at Philosophy, and strikes it blinde;

Danbourn[Dabourn] I had forgot, and let it be,

He dy’d Amphibion by the Ministry;

Silvester,Bartas, whose translatique part

Twinn’d, or was elder to our Laureat:

Divine composingQuarles, whose lines aspire

The April of all Poesy in May,[Tho. May.]

Who makes our English speakPharsalia;

Sandsmetamorphos’d so into another[Sandys]

We know notSandsandOvidfrom each other;

He that so well onScotusplay’d the Man,

The famousDiggs, orLeonard Claudian;

The pithyDaniel, whose salt lines afford

A weighty sentence in each little word;

HeroickDraiton,Withers, smart in Rime,

The very Poet-Beadles of the Time:

Panns pastoralBrown, whose infant Muse did squeak

At eighteen yeares, better than others speak:

Shirleythe morning-child, the Muses bred,

And sent him born with bayes upon his head:

Deep in a dumpIohn Fordalone was got

With folded armes and melancholly hat;

The squibbingMiddleton, andHaywoodsage,

Th’ Apologetick Atlas of the Stage;

Well of the Golden age he could intreat,

But little of the Mettal he could get;

Three-score sweet Babes he fashion’d from the lump,

For he was Christ’ned inParnassuspump;

The Muses Gossip toAurora’sbed,

And ever since that time his face was red.

Thus through the horrour of infernall deeps,

With equal pace each of them softly creeps,

And being dark they hadAlectorstorch,[Alecto’s]

And that madeChurchyardfollow from his Porch,

Poor, ragged, torn, & tackt, alack, alack

You’d think his clothes were pinn’d upon his back.

The whole frame hung with pins, to mend which clothes,

In mirth they sent him to old Father Prose;

Of these sad Poets this way ran the stream,

AndDeckerfollowed after in a dream;

Rounce,Robble,Hobble, he that writ so high big[;]

Basse for a Ballad,John Shankfor a Jig:[Wm. Basse.]

Sent byBen Jonson, as some Authors say,

Broomwent before and kindly swept the way:

OldChaucerwelcomes them unto the Green,

AndSpencerbrings them to the fairy Queen;

The finger they present, and she in grace

Transform’d it to a May-pole, ’bout which trace

Her skipping servants, that do nightly sing,

And dance about the same a Fayrie Ring.

When first the Magick of thine eyeUsurpt upon my liberty,Triumphing in my hearts spoyle, thouDidst lock up thine in such a vow:When I prove false, may the bright dayBe govern’d by the Moones pale ray,(As I too well remember) thisThou saidst, and seald’st it with a kisse.Oh heavens! and could so soon that tyeRelent in sad apostacy?Could all thy Oaths and mortgag’d trust,Banish like Letters form’d in dust,[? vanish]Which the next wind scatters? take heed,Take heed Revolter; know this deedHath wrong’d the world, which will fare worseBy thy example, than thy curse.Hide that false brow in mists; thy shameNe’re see light more, but the dimme flameOf Funerall-lamps; thus sit and moane,And learn to keep thy guilt at home;Give it no vent, for if agenThy love or vowes betray more men,At length I feare thy perjur’d breathWill blow out day, and waken death.

When first the Magick of thine eye

Usurpt upon my liberty,

Triumphing in my hearts spoyle, thou

Didst lock up thine in such a vow:

When I prove false, may the bright day

Be govern’d by the Moones pale ray,

(As I too well remember) this

Thou saidst, and seald’st it with a kisse.

Oh heavens! and could so soon that tyeRelent in sad apostacy?Could all thy Oaths and mortgag’d trust,Banish like Letters form’d in dust,[? vanish]Which the next wind scatters? take heed,Take heed Revolter; know this deedHath wrong’d the world, which will fare worseBy thy example, than thy curse.

Oh heavens! and could so soon that tye

Relent in sad apostacy?

Could all thy Oaths and mortgag’d trust,

Banish like Letters form’d in dust,[? vanish]

Which the next wind scatters? take heed,

Take heed Revolter; know this deed

Hath wrong’d the world, which will fare worse

By thy example, than thy curse.

Hide that false brow in mists; thy shameNe’re see light more, but the dimme flameOf Funerall-lamps; thus sit and moane,And learn to keep thy guilt at home;Give it no vent, for if agenThy love or vowes betray more men,At length I feare thy perjur’d breathWill blow out day, and waken death.

Hide that false brow in mists; thy shame

Ne’re see light more, but the dimme flame

Of Funerall-lamps; thus sit and moane,

And learn to keep thy guilt at home;

Give it no vent, for if agen

Thy love or vowes betray more men,

At length I feare thy perjur’d breath

Will blow out day, and waken death.

If at this time I am derided,And you please to laugh at me,Know I am not unprovidedEvery way to answer thee,Love, or hate, what ere it be,Never Twinns so nearly metAs thou and I in our affection,When thou weepst my eyes are wet,That thou lik’st is my election,I am in the same subjection.In one center we are both,Both our lives the same way tending,Do thou refuse, and I shall loath,As thy eyes, so mine are bending,Either storm or calm portending.I am carelesse if despised,For I can contemn again;How can I be then surprised,Or with sorrow, or with pain,When I can both love & disdain?

If at this time I am derided,And you please to laugh at me,Know I am not unprovidedEvery way to answer thee,Love, or hate, what ere it be,

If at this time I am derided,

And you please to laugh at me,

Know I am not unprovided

Every way to answer thee,

Love, or hate, what ere it be,

Never Twinns so nearly metAs thou and I in our affection,When thou weepst my eyes are wet,That thou lik’st is my election,I am in the same subjection.

Never Twinns so nearly met

As thou and I in our affection,

When thou weepst my eyes are wet,

That thou lik’st is my election,

I am in the same subjection.

In one center we are both,Both our lives the same way tending,Do thou refuse, and I shall loath,As thy eyes, so mine are bending,Either storm or calm portending.

In one center we are both,

Both our lives the same way tending,

Do thou refuse, and I shall loath,

As thy eyes, so mine are bending,

Either storm or calm portending.

I am carelesse if despised,For I can contemn again;How can I be then surprised,Or with sorrow, or with pain,When I can both love & disdain?

I am carelesse if despised,

For I can contemn again;

How can I be then surprised,

Or with sorrow, or with pain,

When I can both love & disdain?

1.Come my White head, let our MusesVent no spleen against abuses,Nor scoffe at monstrous signes i’ th’ nose,Signes in the Teeth, or in the Toes,Nor what now delights us most,The sign of signes upon the post.For other matter we are sped,And our signe shall be i’ th’ head.2.[White Head’sAnswer.]Oh!Will: Rufus, who would passe,Unlesse he were a captious Asse;The Head of all the parts is best,And hath more senses then the rest.This subject then in our defenceWill clear our Poem of non-sense.Besides, you know, what ere we read,We use to bring it to a head.Why there’s no other part we canStile Monarch o’re this Isle of man:’Tis that that weareth Nature’s crown,’Tis this doth smile, ’tis this doth frown,O what a prize and triumph ’twere,To make this King our Subject here:Believ’t, tis true what we have sed,In this we hit the naile o’ th’ head.2.[W. H.’sAnswer.]Your nails upon my head Sir, Why?How do you thus to villifieThe King of Parts, ’mongst all the rest,Or if no king, methinks at least,To mine you should give no offence,That weares the badge of Innocence;Those blowes would far more justly lightOn thy red scull, for mine is white.1.Come on yfaith, that was well sed,A pretty boy, hold up thy head,Or hang it down, and blush apace,And make it like mines native grace.There’s ne’re a Bung-hole in the townBut in the working puts thine down,A byle that’s drawing to a headLooks white like thine, but mine is red.2.[W. H.’sAnswer.]Poore foole, ’twas shame did first inventThe colour of thy Ornament,And therefore thou art much too blameTo boast of that which is thy shame;The Roman Prince that Poppeys topt,Did shew such Red heads should be cropt:And still the Turks for poyson smiteSuch Ruddy skulls, but mine is white.1.The Indians paint their Devils so,And ’tis a hated mark we know,For never any aim arightThat do not strive to hit the white:The Eagle threw her shell-fish down,To crack in pieces such a crown:Alas, a stinking onions headIs white like thine, but mine is red.2.[White’s]Red like to a blood-shot eye,Provoking all that see ’t to cry:For shame nere vaunt thy colours thusSince ’tis an eye-sore unto us;Those locks I’d swear, did I not know’t,Were threds of some red petticoat;No Bedlams oaker’d armes afrightSo much as thine, but mine is white.1.Now if thou’lt blaze thy armes Ile shew’t,My head doth love no petticoat,My face on one side is as faireAs on the other is my haire,So that I bear by Herauld’s rules,Party per pale Argent and Gules.Then laugh not ’cause my hair is red,Ile swear that mine’s a noble head.1.[2. White Head’s Reply.]The Scutcheon of my field doth beareOne onely field, and that is rare,For then methinks that thine should yeild,Since mine long since hath won the field;Besides, all the notes that be,White is the note of Chastity,So that without all feare or dread,Ile swear that mine’s a maidenhead.1.There’s no Camelion red like me,Nor white, perhaps, thou’lt say, like thee;Why then that mine is farre aboveThy haire, by statute I can prove;What ever there doth seem divineIs added to a Rubrick line,Which whosoever hath but read,Will grant that mine’s a lawful head.2.[White Head.]Yet adde what thou maist, which by yeares,Crosses, troubles, cares and feares;For that kind nature gave to meIn youth a white head, as you see,At which, though age it selfe repine,It ne’re shall change a haire of mine;And all shall say when I am dead,I onely had a constant head.1.Yes faith, in that Ile condescend,That our dissention here may end,Though heads be alwaies by the eares,Yet ours shall be more noble peeres:For I avouch since I began,Under a colour all was done.Then let us mix the White and Red,And both shall make a beauteous head.1.We mind our heads man all this time[,]And beat them both about this rime;And I confesse what gave offenceWas but a haires difference.And that went too as I dare sweareIn both of us against the haire;Then joyntly now for what is saidLets crave a pardon from our head.

Come my White head, let our Muses

Vent no spleen against abuses,

Nor scoffe at monstrous signes i’ th’ nose,

Signes in the Teeth, or in the Toes,

Nor what now delights us most,

The sign of signes upon the post.

For other matter we are sped,

And our signe shall be i’ th’ head.

2.[White Head’sAnswer.]Oh!Will: Rufus, who would passe,Unlesse he were a captious Asse;The Head of all the parts is best,And hath more senses then the rest.This subject then in our defenceWill clear our Poem of non-sense.Besides, you know, what ere we read,We use to bring it to a head.

2.[White Head’sAnswer.]

Oh!Will: Rufus, who would passe,

Unlesse he were a captious Asse;

The Head of all the parts is best,

And hath more senses then the rest.

This subject then in our defence

Will clear our Poem of non-sense.

Besides, you know, what ere we read,

We use to bring it to a head.

Why there’s no other part we canStile Monarch o’re this Isle of man:’Tis that that weareth Nature’s crown,’Tis this doth smile, ’tis this doth frown,O what a prize and triumph ’twere,To make this King our Subject here:Believ’t, tis true what we have sed,In this we hit the naile o’ th’ head.

Why there’s no other part we can

Stile Monarch o’re this Isle of man:

’Tis that that weareth Nature’s crown,

’Tis this doth smile, ’tis this doth frown,

O what a prize and triumph ’twere,

To make this King our Subject here:

Believ’t, tis true what we have sed,

In this we hit the naile o’ th’ head.

2.[W. H.’sAnswer.]Your nails upon my head Sir, Why?How do you thus to villifieThe King of Parts, ’mongst all the rest,Or if no king, methinks at least,To mine you should give no offence,That weares the badge of Innocence;Those blowes would far more justly lightOn thy red scull, for mine is white.

2.[W. H.’sAnswer.]

Your nails upon my head Sir, Why?

How do you thus to villifie

The King of Parts, ’mongst all the rest,

Or if no king, methinks at least,

To mine you should give no offence,

That weares the badge of Innocence;

Those blowes would far more justly light

On thy red scull, for mine is white.

1.Come on yfaith, that was well sed,A pretty boy, hold up thy head,Or hang it down, and blush apace,And make it like mines native grace.There’s ne’re a Bung-hole in the townBut in the working puts thine down,A byle that’s drawing to a headLooks white like thine, but mine is red.

Come on yfaith, that was well sed,

A pretty boy, hold up thy head,

Or hang it down, and blush apace,

And make it like mines native grace.

There’s ne’re a Bung-hole in the town

But in the working puts thine down,

A byle that’s drawing to a head

Looks white like thine, but mine is red.

2.[W. H.’sAnswer.]Poore foole, ’twas shame did first inventThe colour of thy Ornament,And therefore thou art much too blameTo boast of that which is thy shame;The Roman Prince that Poppeys topt,Did shew such Red heads should be cropt:And still the Turks for poyson smiteSuch Ruddy skulls, but mine is white.

2.[W. H.’sAnswer.]

Poore foole, ’twas shame did first invent

The colour of thy Ornament,

And therefore thou art much too blame

To boast of that which is thy shame;

The Roman Prince that Poppeys topt,

Did shew such Red heads should be cropt:

And still the Turks for poyson smite

Such Ruddy skulls, but mine is white.

1.The Indians paint their Devils so,And ’tis a hated mark we know,For never any aim arightThat do not strive to hit the white:The Eagle threw her shell-fish down,To crack in pieces such a crown:Alas, a stinking onions headIs white like thine, but mine is red.

The Indians paint their Devils so,

And ’tis a hated mark we know,

For never any aim aright

That do not strive to hit the white:

The Eagle threw her shell-fish down,

To crack in pieces such a crown:

Alas, a stinking onions head

Is white like thine, but mine is red.

2.[White’s]Red like to a blood-shot eye,Provoking all that see ’t to cry:For shame nere vaunt thy colours thusSince ’tis an eye-sore unto us;Those locks I’d swear, did I not know’t,Were threds of some red petticoat;No Bedlams oaker’d armes afrightSo much as thine, but mine is white.

2.[White’s]

Red like to a blood-shot eye,

Provoking all that see ’t to cry:

For shame nere vaunt thy colours thus

Since ’tis an eye-sore unto us;

Those locks I’d swear, did I not know’t,

Were threds of some red petticoat;

No Bedlams oaker’d armes afright

So much as thine, but mine is white.

1.Now if thou’lt blaze thy armes Ile shew’t,My head doth love no petticoat,My face on one side is as faireAs on the other is my haire,So that I bear by Herauld’s rules,Party per pale Argent and Gules.Then laugh not ’cause my hair is red,Ile swear that mine’s a noble head.

Now if thou’lt blaze thy armes Ile shew’t,

My head doth love no petticoat,

My face on one side is as faire

As on the other is my haire,

So that I bear by Herauld’s rules,

Party per pale Argent and Gules.

Then laugh not ’cause my hair is red,

Ile swear that mine’s a noble head.

1.[2. White Head’s Reply.]The Scutcheon of my field doth beareOne onely field, and that is rare,For then methinks that thine should yeild,Since mine long since hath won the field;Besides, all the notes that be,White is the note of Chastity,So that without all feare or dread,Ile swear that mine’s a maidenhead.

1.[2. White Head’s Reply.]

The Scutcheon of my field doth beare

One onely field, and that is rare,

For then methinks that thine should yeild,

Since mine long since hath won the field;

Besides, all the notes that be,

White is the note of Chastity,

So that without all feare or dread,

Ile swear that mine’s a maidenhead.

1.There’s no Camelion red like me,Nor white, perhaps, thou’lt say, like thee;Why then that mine is farre aboveThy haire, by statute I can prove;What ever there doth seem divineIs added to a Rubrick line,Which whosoever hath but read,Will grant that mine’s a lawful head.

There’s no Camelion red like me,

Nor white, perhaps, thou’lt say, like thee;

Why then that mine is farre above

Thy haire, by statute I can prove;

What ever there doth seem divine

Is added to a Rubrick line,

Which whosoever hath but read,

Will grant that mine’s a lawful head.

2.[White Head.]Yet adde what thou maist, which by yeares,Crosses, troubles, cares and feares;For that kind nature gave to meIn youth a white head, as you see,At which, though age it selfe repine,It ne’re shall change a haire of mine;And all shall say when I am dead,I onely had a constant head.

2.[White Head.]

Yet adde what thou maist, which by yeares,

Crosses, troubles, cares and feares;

For that kind nature gave to me

In youth a white head, as you see,

At which, though age it selfe repine,

It ne’re shall change a haire of mine;

And all shall say when I am dead,

I onely had a constant head.

1.Yes faith, in that Ile condescend,That our dissention here may end,Though heads be alwaies by the eares,Yet ours shall be more noble peeres:For I avouch since I began,Under a colour all was done.Then let us mix the White and Red,And both shall make a beauteous head.

Yes faith, in that Ile condescend,

That our dissention here may end,

Though heads be alwaies by the eares,

Yet ours shall be more noble peeres:

For I avouch since I began,

Under a colour all was done.

Then let us mix the White and Red,

And both shall make a beauteous head.

1.We mind our heads man all this time[,]And beat them both about this rime;And I confesse what gave offenceWas but a haires difference.And that went too as I dare sweareIn both of us against the haire;Then joyntly now for what is saidLets crave a pardon from our head.

We mind our heads man all this time[,]

And beat them both about this rime;

And I confesse what gave offence

Was but a haires difference.

And that went too as I dare sweare

In both of us against the haire;

Then joyntly now for what is said

Lets crave a pardon from our head.

Shall I think because some cloudsThe beauty of my Mistris shrouds,To look after another Star?Those toCynthiaservants are;May the stars when I doe sue,In their anger shoot me through;Shall I shrink at stormes of rain,Or be driven back again,Or ignoble like a worm,Be a slave unto a storm?Pity he should ever tastThe Spring that feareth Winters blast;Fortune and Malice then combine,Spight of either I am thine;And to be sure keep thou my heart,And let them wound my worser part,Which could they kill, yet should I beeAlive again, when pleaseth thee.

Shall I think because some clouds

The beauty of my Mistris shrouds,

To look after another Star?

Those toCynthiaservants are;

May the stars when I doe sue,

In their anger shoot me through;

Shall I shrink at stormes of rain,

Or be driven back again,

Or ignoble like a worm,

Be a slave unto a storm?

Pity he should ever tast

The Spring that feareth Winters blast;

Fortune and Malice then combine,

Spight of either I am thine;

And to be sure keep thou my heart,

And let them wound my worser part,

Which could they kill, yet should I bee

Alive again, when pleaseth thee.

A Stranger coming to the town,Went to theFlower-de-luce,A place that seem’d in outward shewFor honest men to use;And finding all things common there,That tended to delight,By chance upon the French diseaseIt was his hap to light.And lest that other men should fareAs he had done before,As he went forth he wrote this downUpon the utmost doore.All you that hither chance to come,Mark well ere you be in,TheFrenchmensarms are signs withoutOfFrenchmensharms within.

A Stranger coming to the town,Went to theFlower-de-luce,A place that seem’d in outward shewFor honest men to use;

A Stranger coming to the town,

Went to theFlower-de-luce,

A place that seem’d in outward shew

For honest men to use;

And finding all things common there,That tended to delight,By chance upon the French diseaseIt was his hap to light.

And finding all things common there,

That tended to delight,

By chance upon the French disease

It was his hap to light.

And lest that other men should fareAs he had done before,As he went forth he wrote this downUpon the utmost doore.

And lest that other men should fare

As he had done before,

As he went forth he wrote this down

Upon the utmost doore.

All you that hither chance to come,Mark well ere you be in,TheFrenchmensarms are signs withoutOfFrenchmensharms within.

All you that hither chance to come,

Mark well ere you be in,

TheFrenchmensarms are signs without

OfFrenchmensharms within.

Never was humane soule so overgrown,With an unreasonable CargazonOf flesh, asAldobrandine, whom to pack,No girdle serv’d lesse than the zodiack:So thick a Giant, that he now was comeTo be accounted an eighth hill inRome,And as the learn’dTostatuskept his age,Writing for every day he liv’d a page;So he no lesse voluminous then thatAdded each day a leaf, but ’twas of fat.The choicest beauty that had been devis’dBy Nature, was by her parents sacrific’dUp to this Monster, upon whom to try,If as increase, he could, too, multiply.Oh how I tremble lest the tender maidShould dye like a young infant over-laid!For when this Chaos would pretend to moveAnd arch his back for the strong act of Love,He fals as soon orethrown with his own weight,And with his ruines doth the Princesse fright.She lovely Martyr there lyes stew’d and prest,Like flesh under the tarr’d saddle drest,And seemes to those that look on them in bed,Larded with him, rather than married.Oft did he cry, but still in vain[,] to forceHis fatnesse[,] powerfuller then a divorce:No herbs, no midwives profit here, nor canOf his great belly free the teeming man.What though he drink the vinegars most fine,They do not wast his fleshy Apennine;His paunch like some huge Istmos runs betweenThe amarous Seas, and lets them not be seen;Yet a newDedalusinvented howThis Bull with hisPasiphaemight plow.Have you those artificial torments known,With which long sunken Galeos are thrownAgain on Sea, or the dead GaliaWas rais’d that once behinde St.Peterslay:By the same rules he this same engine made,With silken cords in nimble pullies laid;And when his Genius prompteth his slow partTo works of Nature, which he helps with Art:First he intangles in those woven bands,His groveling weight, and ready to commands,The sworn Prinadas of his bed, the AidsOf Loves Camp, necessary Chambermaids;Each runs to her known tackling, hasts to hoyse,And in just distance of the urging voyce,Exhorts the labour till he smiling riseTo the beds roof, and wonders how he flies.Thence as the eager Falcon having spy’dFowl at the brook, or by the Rivers side,Hangs in the middle Region of the aire,So hovers he, and plains above his faire:BlestIcarusfirst melted at those beames,That he might after fall into those streames,And there allaying his delicious flame,In that sweet Ocean propogate his name.Unable longer to delay, he callsTo be let down, and in short measure fallsToward his Mistresse, that without her smockLies naked asAndromedaat the Rock,And through the Skies see her wing’dPerseusstrikeThough for his bulk, more that sea-monster like.Mean time the Nurse, who as the most discreet,Stood governing the motions at the feet,And ballanc’d his descent, lest that amisseHe fell too fast, or that way more than this;Steeres the Prow of the pensile Gallease,Right on Loves Harbour the Nymph lets him passOver the Chains, & ’tween the double FortOf her incastled knees, which guard the Port.The Burs as she had learnt still diligent,Now girt him backwards, now him forwards bent;Like those that levell’d in tough Cordage, teachThe mural Ram, and guide it to the Breach.

Never was humane soule so overgrown,

With an unreasonable Cargazon

Of flesh, asAldobrandine, whom to pack,

No girdle serv’d lesse than the zodiack:

So thick a Giant, that he now was come

To be accounted an eighth hill inRome,

And as the learn’dTostatuskept his age,

Writing for every day he liv’d a page;

So he no lesse voluminous then that

Added each day a leaf, but ’twas of fat.

The choicest beauty that had been devis’d

By Nature, was by her parents sacrific’d

Up to this Monster, upon whom to try,

If as increase, he could, too, multiply.

Oh how I tremble lest the tender maid

Should dye like a young infant over-laid!

For when this Chaos would pretend to move

And arch his back for the strong act of Love,

He fals as soon orethrown with his own weight,

And with his ruines doth the Princesse fright.

She lovely Martyr there lyes stew’d and prest,

Like flesh under the tarr’d saddle drest,

And seemes to those that look on them in bed,

Larded with him, rather than married.

Oft did he cry, but still in vain[,] to force

His fatnesse[,] powerfuller then a divorce:

No herbs, no midwives profit here, nor can

Of his great belly free the teeming man.

What though he drink the vinegars most fine,

They do not wast his fleshy Apennine;

His paunch like some huge Istmos runs between

The amarous Seas, and lets them not be seen;

Yet a newDedalusinvented how

This Bull with hisPasiphaemight plow.

Have you those artificial torments known,

With which long sunken Galeos are thrown

Again on Sea, or the dead Galia

Was rais’d that once behinde St.Peterslay:

By the same rules he this same engine made,

With silken cords in nimble pullies laid;

And when his Genius prompteth his slow part

To works of Nature, which he helps with Art:

First he intangles in those woven bands,

His groveling weight, and ready to commands,

The sworn Prinadas of his bed, the Aids

Of Loves Camp, necessary Chambermaids;

Each runs to her known tackling, hasts to hoyse,

And in just distance of the urging voyce,

Exhorts the labour till he smiling rise

To the beds roof, and wonders how he flies.

Thence as the eager Falcon having spy’d

Fowl at the brook, or by the Rivers side,

Hangs in the middle Region of the aire,

So hovers he, and plains above his faire:

BlestIcarusfirst melted at those beames,

That he might after fall into those streames,

And there allaying his delicious flame,

In that sweet Ocean propogate his name.

Unable longer to delay, he calls

To be let down, and in short measure falls

Toward his Mistresse, that without her smock

Lies naked asAndromedaat the Rock,

And through the Skies see her wing’dPerseusstrike

Though for his bulk, more that sea-monster like.

Mean time the Nurse, who as the most discreet,

Stood governing the motions at the feet,

And ballanc’d his descent, lest that amisse

He fell too fast, or that way more than this;

Steeres the Prow of the pensile Gallease,

Right on Loves Harbour the Nymph lets him pass

Over the Chains, & ’tween the double Fort

Of her incastled knees, which guard the Port.

The Burs as she had learnt still diligent,

Now girt him backwards, now him forwards bent;

Like those that levell’d in tough Cordage, teach

The mural Ram, and guide it to the Breach.

[On the welcoming of Queen Henrietta Maria, 1625].

1.List you Nobles, and attend,For here’s a Ballat newly penn’dI took it up inKent,If any ask who made the same,To him I say the authors nameIs honestJack of Lent.2.But ere I farther passe along,Or let you know more of my Song,I wish the doores were lockt,For if there be so base a Groom,As one informes me in this room,The Fidlers may be knockt.3.Tis true, he had, I dare protest,No kind of malice in his brest,But Knaves are dangerous things;And they of late are grown so bold,They dare appeare in cloth of Gold,Even in the roomes of Kings.4.But hit or misse I will declareThe speeches at London and elsewhere,Concerning this design,Amongst the Drunkards it is said,They hope her dowry shall be paidIn nought but Clarret wine.5.The Country Clowns when they repaireEither to Market or to Faire,No sooner get their pots,But straight they swear the time is comeThat England must be over-runBetwixt the French and Scots.6.The Puritans that never fayle’Gainst Kings and Magistrates to rayle,With impudence aver,That verily, and in good sooth,Some Antichrist, or pretty youth,Shall doubtlesse get of her.7.A holy Sister having hemm’dAnd blown her nose, will say she dream’d,Or else a Spirit told her,That they and all these holy seed,To Amsterdam must go to breed,Ere they were twelve months older.8.And might butJack Alentadvise,Those dreams of theirs should not prove lies,For as he greatly feares,They will be prating night and day,Till verily, by yea, and nay,They set’s together by th’ ears.9.The Romish Catholiques proclaim,ThatGundemore, though he be lame,Yet can he do some tricks;AtParis, he the King shall showA pre-contract made, as I know,Five hundred twenty six.10.But sure the State ofFranceis wise,And knowes thatSpainvents naught but lies,For such is their Religion;The Jesuits can with ease disgorgeFrom that their damn’d and hellish forge,Foule falshood by the Legion.11.But be it so, we will admit,The State ofSpainhath no more wit,Then to invent such tales,Yet as greatAlexanderdrew,And cut the Gorgon Knot in two,So shall the Prince of Wales.12.The reverend Bishops whisper too,That now they shall have much adoeWith Friers and with Monks,And eke their wives do greatly feareThose bald pate knaves will mak’t appeareThey are Canonical punks.13.AtCambridgeand atOxfordeke,They of this match like Schollers speakBy figures and by tropes,But as for the Supremacy,The Body may KingJames’sbe,But sure the Head’s thePope’s.14.A Puritan stept up and cries,That he the major part denies,And though he Logick scorns,Yet he by revelation knowsThe Pope no part o’ th’ head-piece owsExcept it be the horns.15.The learned in Astrologie,That wander up and down the sky,And their discourse with stars,[there]Foresee that some of this brave routThat now goes faire and soundly out,Shall back return with scars.16.Professors of Astronomy,That all the world knows, dare not lieWith the Mathematicians,Prognosticate this Somer shallBring with the pox the Devil and all,To Surgeons and Physitians.17.The Civil Lawyer laughs in’s sleeve,For he doth verily believeThat after all these sports,The Cit[i]zens will horn and grow,And their ill-gotten goods will throwAbout their bawdy Courts.18.And those that doApollocourt,And with the wanton Muses sport,Believe the time is come,That Gallants will themselves addresseTo Masques & Playes, & Wantonnesse,More than to fife and drum.19.Such as in musique spend their dayes,And study Songs and Roundelayes,Begin to cleare their throats,For by some signes they do presage,That this will prove a fidling ageFit for men of their coats.20.But leaving Colleges and Schools,To all those Clerks and learned Fools,Lets through the city range,For there are Sconces made of Horn,Foresee things long ere they be born,Which you’l perhaps think strange.21.The Major and Aldermen being met,[Mayor]And at a Custard closely setEach in their rank and order,The Major a question doth propound,And that unanswer’d must go round,Till it comes to th’ Recorder.22.For he’s the Citys Oracle,And which you’l think a Miracle,He hath their brains in keeping,For when a Cause should be decreed,He cries the bench are all agreed,When most of them are sleeping.23.A Sheriff at lower end o’ th’ boardCries Masters all hear me a word,A bolt Ile onely shoot,We shall have Executions storeAgainst some gallants now gone o’re,Wherefore good brethren look to’t.24.The rascall Sergeants fleering stand,Wishing their Charter reacht the Strand,That they might there intrude;But since they are not yet content,I wish that it to Tyburn went,So they might there conclude.25.An Alderman both grave and wiseCries brethren all let me advise,Whilst wit is to be had,That like good husbands we provideSome speeches for the Lady bride,Before all men go mad.26.For by my faith if we may guesseOf greater mischiefs by the lesse,I pray let this suffice,If we but on men’s backs do look,And look into each tradesmans bookYou’l swear few men are wise.27.Some thred-bare Poet we will presse,And for that day we will him dresse,At least in beaten Sattin,And he shall tell her from this bench,That though we understand no French,AtPaulsshe may hear Lattin.28.But on this point they all demurre,And each takes counsell of his furreThat smells of Fox and Cony,At last a Mayor in high disdain,Swears he much scorns that in his reignWit should be bought for mony.29.For by this Sack I mean to drink,I would not have my Soveraign thinkfor twenty thousand Crownes,That I his Lord Lieutenant here,And you my brethren should appearSuch errant witlesse Clownes.30.No, no, I have it in my head,Devises that shall strike it dead,And make proudParissayThat littleLondonhath a MayorCan entertain their Lady faire,As well as ere did they.31.S.GeorgesChurch shall be the placeWhere first I mean to meet her grace,And there St. George shall beMounted upon a dapple gray,And gaping wide shall seem to say,Welcome St.Dennisto me.32.From thence in order two by twoAs we toPaulsare us’d to goe,To th’ Bridge we will convey her,And there upon the top o’ th’ gate,Where now stands many a Rascal’s pate,I mean to place a player.33.And to the Princess he shall cry,May’t please your Grace, cast up your eyeAnd see these heads of Traytors;Thus will the city serve all thoseThat to your Highnesse shall prove foes,For they to Knaves are haters.34.Down Fishstreet hill a Whale shall shoot,And meet her at the Bridges foot,And forth of his mouth so wide aShallJonaspeep, and say, for fish,As good as your sweet-heart can wish,You shall have hence each Friday.35.At Grace-church corner there shall standA troop of Graces hand in hand,And they to her shall say,Your Grace ofFranceis welcome hither,’Tis merry when Graces meet together,I pray keep on your way.36.At the Exchange shall placed be,In ugly shapes those sisters threeThat give to each their fate,AndSpaine’s Infantashall stand byWringing their hands, and thus shall cry,I do repent too late.37.There we a paire of gloves will give,And pray her Highnesse long may liveOn her white hands to wear them;And though they have aSpanishscent,The givers have no ill intent,Wherefore she need not feare them.38.Nor shall the Conduits now run Claret,Perhaps theFrenchmancares not for it,They have at home so much,No, I will make the boy to pisseNo worse then purest Hypocris,Her Grace ne’re tasted such.39.About the Standard I think fitYour wives, my brethren, all should sit,And eke our Lady Mayris,Who shall present a cup of gold,And say if we might be bold,We’l drink to all inParis.40.InPaulsChurch-yard we breath may take,For they such huge long speeches make,Would tire any horse;But there I’le put her grace in minde,To cast her Princely head behindAnd view S.Paul’sCrosse.41.Our Sergeants they shall go their way,And for us at the Devil stay,I mean at Temple-barre,And there of her we leave will take,And say ’twas for KingCharlshis sakeWe went with her so farre.42.But fearing I have tir’d the eares,Both of the Duke and all these Peeres,Ile be no more uncivill,Ile leave the Mayor with both the Sheriffs,With Sergeants, hanging at their sleeves,For this time at the Devill.

1.List you Nobles, and attend,For here’s a Ballat newly penn’dI took it up inKent,If any ask who made the same,To him I say the authors nameIs honestJack of Lent.

List you Nobles, and attend,

For here’s a Ballat newly penn’d

I took it up inKent,

If any ask who made the same,

To him I say the authors name

Is honestJack of Lent.

2.But ere I farther passe along,Or let you know more of my Song,I wish the doores were lockt,For if there be so base a Groom,As one informes me in this room,The Fidlers may be knockt.

But ere I farther passe along,

Or let you know more of my Song,

I wish the doores were lockt,

For if there be so base a Groom,

As one informes me in this room,

The Fidlers may be knockt.

3.Tis true, he had, I dare protest,No kind of malice in his brest,But Knaves are dangerous things;And they of late are grown so bold,They dare appeare in cloth of Gold,Even in the roomes of Kings.

Tis true, he had, I dare protest,

No kind of malice in his brest,

But Knaves are dangerous things;

And they of late are grown so bold,

They dare appeare in cloth of Gold,

Even in the roomes of Kings.

4.But hit or misse I will declareThe speeches at London and elsewhere,Concerning this design,Amongst the Drunkards it is said,They hope her dowry shall be paidIn nought but Clarret wine.

But hit or misse I will declare

The speeches at London and elsewhere,

Concerning this design,

Amongst the Drunkards it is said,

They hope her dowry shall be paid

In nought but Clarret wine.

5.The Country Clowns when they repaireEither to Market or to Faire,No sooner get their pots,But straight they swear the time is comeThat England must be over-runBetwixt the French and Scots.

The Country Clowns when they repaire

Either to Market or to Faire,

No sooner get their pots,

But straight they swear the time is come

That England must be over-run

Betwixt the French and Scots.

6.The Puritans that never fayle’Gainst Kings and Magistrates to rayle,With impudence aver,That verily, and in good sooth,Some Antichrist, or pretty youth,Shall doubtlesse get of her.

The Puritans that never fayle

’Gainst Kings and Magistrates to rayle,

With impudence aver,

That verily, and in good sooth,

Some Antichrist, or pretty youth,

Shall doubtlesse get of her.

7.A holy Sister having hemm’dAnd blown her nose, will say she dream’d,Or else a Spirit told her,That they and all these holy seed,To Amsterdam must go to breed,Ere they were twelve months older.

A holy Sister having hemm’d

And blown her nose, will say she dream’d,

Or else a Spirit told her,

That they and all these holy seed,

To Amsterdam must go to breed,

Ere they were twelve months older.

8.And might butJack Alentadvise,Those dreams of theirs should not prove lies,For as he greatly feares,They will be prating night and day,Till verily, by yea, and nay,They set’s together by th’ ears.

And might butJack Alentadvise,

Those dreams of theirs should not prove lies,

For as he greatly feares,

They will be prating night and day,

Till verily, by yea, and nay,

They set’s together by th’ ears.

9.The Romish Catholiques proclaim,ThatGundemore, though he be lame,Yet can he do some tricks;AtParis, he the King shall showA pre-contract made, as I know,Five hundred twenty six.

The Romish Catholiques proclaim,

ThatGundemore, though he be lame,

Yet can he do some tricks;

AtParis, he the King shall show

A pre-contract made, as I know,

Five hundred twenty six.

10.But sure the State ofFranceis wise,And knowes thatSpainvents naught but lies,For such is their Religion;The Jesuits can with ease disgorgeFrom that their damn’d and hellish forge,Foule falshood by the Legion.

10.

But sure the State ofFranceis wise,

And knowes thatSpainvents naught but lies,

For such is their Religion;

The Jesuits can with ease disgorge

From that their damn’d and hellish forge,

Foule falshood by the Legion.

11.But be it so, we will admit,The State ofSpainhath no more wit,Then to invent such tales,Yet as greatAlexanderdrew,And cut the Gorgon Knot in two,So shall the Prince of Wales.

11.

But be it so, we will admit,

The State ofSpainhath no more wit,

Then to invent such tales,

Yet as greatAlexanderdrew,

And cut the Gorgon Knot in two,

So shall the Prince of Wales.

12.The reverend Bishops whisper too,That now they shall have much adoeWith Friers and with Monks,And eke their wives do greatly feareThose bald pate knaves will mak’t appeareThey are Canonical punks.

12.

The reverend Bishops whisper too,

That now they shall have much adoe

With Friers and with Monks,

And eke their wives do greatly feare

Those bald pate knaves will mak’t appeare

They are Canonical punks.

13.AtCambridgeand atOxfordeke,They of this match like Schollers speakBy figures and by tropes,But as for the Supremacy,The Body may KingJames’sbe,But sure the Head’s thePope’s.

13.

AtCambridgeand atOxfordeke,

They of this match like Schollers speak

By figures and by tropes,

But as for the Supremacy,

The Body may KingJames’sbe,

But sure the Head’s thePope’s.

14.A Puritan stept up and cries,That he the major part denies,And though he Logick scorns,Yet he by revelation knowsThe Pope no part o’ th’ head-piece owsExcept it be the horns.

14.

A Puritan stept up and cries,

That he the major part denies,

And though he Logick scorns,

Yet he by revelation knows

The Pope no part o’ th’ head-piece ows

Except it be the horns.

15.The learned in Astrologie,That wander up and down the sky,And their discourse with stars,[there]Foresee that some of this brave routThat now goes faire and soundly out,Shall back return with scars.

15.

The learned in Astrologie,

That wander up and down the sky,

And their discourse with stars,[there]

Foresee that some of this brave rout

That now goes faire and soundly out,

Shall back return with scars.

16.Professors of Astronomy,That all the world knows, dare not lieWith the Mathematicians,Prognosticate this Somer shallBring with the pox the Devil and all,To Surgeons and Physitians.

16.

Professors of Astronomy,

That all the world knows, dare not lie

With the Mathematicians,

Prognosticate this Somer shall

Bring with the pox the Devil and all,

To Surgeons and Physitians.

17.The Civil Lawyer laughs in’s sleeve,For he doth verily believeThat after all these sports,The Cit[i]zens will horn and grow,And their ill-gotten goods will throwAbout their bawdy Courts.

17.

The Civil Lawyer laughs in’s sleeve,

For he doth verily believe

That after all these sports,

The Cit[i]zens will horn and grow,

And their ill-gotten goods will throw

About their bawdy Courts.

18.And those that doApollocourt,And with the wanton Muses sport,Believe the time is come,That Gallants will themselves addresseTo Masques & Playes, & Wantonnesse,More than to fife and drum.

18.

And those that doApollocourt,

And with the wanton Muses sport,

Believe the time is come,

That Gallants will themselves addresse

To Masques & Playes, & Wantonnesse,

More than to fife and drum.

19.Such as in musique spend their dayes,And study Songs and Roundelayes,Begin to cleare their throats,For by some signes they do presage,That this will prove a fidling ageFit for men of their coats.

19.

Such as in musique spend their dayes,

And study Songs and Roundelayes,

Begin to cleare their throats,

For by some signes they do presage,

That this will prove a fidling age

Fit for men of their coats.

20.But leaving Colleges and Schools,To all those Clerks and learned Fools,Lets through the city range,For there are Sconces made of Horn,Foresee things long ere they be born,Which you’l perhaps think strange.

20.

But leaving Colleges and Schools,

To all those Clerks and learned Fools,

Lets through the city range,

For there are Sconces made of Horn,

Foresee things long ere they be born,

Which you’l perhaps think strange.

21.The Major and Aldermen being met,[Mayor]And at a Custard closely setEach in their rank and order,The Major a question doth propound,And that unanswer’d must go round,Till it comes to th’ Recorder.

21.

The Major and Aldermen being met,[Mayor]

And at a Custard closely set

Each in their rank and order,

The Major a question doth propound,

And that unanswer’d must go round,

Till it comes to th’ Recorder.

22.For he’s the Citys Oracle,And which you’l think a Miracle,He hath their brains in keeping,For when a Cause should be decreed,He cries the bench are all agreed,When most of them are sleeping.

22.

For he’s the Citys Oracle,

And which you’l think a Miracle,

He hath their brains in keeping,

For when a Cause should be decreed,

He cries the bench are all agreed,

When most of them are sleeping.

23.A Sheriff at lower end o’ th’ boardCries Masters all hear me a word,A bolt Ile onely shoot,We shall have Executions storeAgainst some gallants now gone o’re,Wherefore good brethren look to’t.

23.

A Sheriff at lower end o’ th’ board

Cries Masters all hear me a word,

A bolt Ile onely shoot,

We shall have Executions store

Against some gallants now gone o’re,

Wherefore good brethren look to’t.

24.The rascall Sergeants fleering stand,Wishing their Charter reacht the Strand,That they might there intrude;But since they are not yet content,I wish that it to Tyburn went,So they might there conclude.

24.

The rascall Sergeants fleering stand,

Wishing their Charter reacht the Strand,

That they might there intrude;

But since they are not yet content,

I wish that it to Tyburn went,

So they might there conclude.

25.An Alderman both grave and wiseCries brethren all let me advise,Whilst wit is to be had,That like good husbands we provideSome speeches for the Lady bride,Before all men go mad.

25.

An Alderman both grave and wise

Cries brethren all let me advise,

Whilst wit is to be had,

That like good husbands we provide

Some speeches for the Lady bride,

Before all men go mad.

26.For by my faith if we may guesseOf greater mischiefs by the lesse,I pray let this suffice,If we but on men’s backs do look,And look into each tradesmans bookYou’l swear few men are wise.

26.

For by my faith if we may guesse

Of greater mischiefs by the lesse,

I pray let this suffice,

If we but on men’s backs do look,

And look into each tradesmans book

You’l swear few men are wise.

27.Some thred-bare Poet we will presse,And for that day we will him dresse,At least in beaten Sattin,And he shall tell her from this bench,That though we understand no French,AtPaulsshe may hear Lattin.

27.

Some thred-bare Poet we will presse,

And for that day we will him dresse,

At least in beaten Sattin,

And he shall tell her from this bench,

That though we understand no French,

AtPaulsshe may hear Lattin.

28.But on this point they all demurre,And each takes counsell of his furreThat smells of Fox and Cony,At last a Mayor in high disdain,Swears he much scorns that in his reignWit should be bought for mony.

28.

But on this point they all demurre,

And each takes counsell of his furre

That smells of Fox and Cony,

At last a Mayor in high disdain,

Swears he much scorns that in his reign

Wit should be bought for mony.

29.For by this Sack I mean to drink,I would not have my Soveraign thinkfor twenty thousand Crownes,That I his Lord Lieutenant here,And you my brethren should appearSuch errant witlesse Clownes.

29.

For by this Sack I mean to drink,

I would not have my Soveraign think

for twenty thousand Crownes,

That I his Lord Lieutenant here,

And you my brethren should appear

Such errant witlesse Clownes.

30.No, no, I have it in my head,Devises that shall strike it dead,And make proudParissayThat littleLondonhath a MayorCan entertain their Lady faire,As well as ere did they.

30.

No, no, I have it in my head,

Devises that shall strike it dead,

And make proudParissay

That littleLondonhath a Mayor

Can entertain their Lady faire,

As well as ere did they.

31.S.GeorgesChurch shall be the placeWhere first I mean to meet her grace,And there St. George shall beMounted upon a dapple gray,And gaping wide shall seem to say,Welcome St.Dennisto me.

31.

S.GeorgesChurch shall be the place

Where first I mean to meet her grace,

And there St. George shall be

Mounted upon a dapple gray,

And gaping wide shall seem to say,

Welcome St.Dennisto me.

32.From thence in order two by twoAs we toPaulsare us’d to goe,To th’ Bridge we will convey her,And there upon the top o’ th’ gate,Where now stands many a Rascal’s pate,I mean to place a player.

32.

From thence in order two by two

As we toPaulsare us’d to goe,

To th’ Bridge we will convey her,

And there upon the top o’ th’ gate,

Where now stands many a Rascal’s pate,

I mean to place a player.

33.And to the Princess he shall cry,May’t please your Grace, cast up your eyeAnd see these heads of Traytors;Thus will the city serve all thoseThat to your Highnesse shall prove foes,For they to Knaves are haters.

33.

And to the Princess he shall cry,

May’t please your Grace, cast up your eye

And see these heads of Traytors;

Thus will the city serve all those

That to your Highnesse shall prove foes,

For they to Knaves are haters.

34.Down Fishstreet hill a Whale shall shoot,And meet her at the Bridges foot,And forth of his mouth so wide aShallJonaspeep, and say, for fish,As good as your sweet-heart can wish,You shall have hence each Friday.

34.

Down Fishstreet hill a Whale shall shoot,

And meet her at the Bridges foot,

And forth of his mouth so wide a

ShallJonaspeep, and say, for fish,

As good as your sweet-heart can wish,

You shall have hence each Friday.

35.At Grace-church corner there shall standA troop of Graces hand in hand,And they to her shall say,Your Grace ofFranceis welcome hither,’Tis merry when Graces meet together,I pray keep on your way.

35.

At Grace-church corner there shall stand

A troop of Graces hand in hand,

And they to her shall say,

Your Grace ofFranceis welcome hither,

’Tis merry when Graces meet together,

I pray keep on your way.

36.At the Exchange shall placed be,In ugly shapes those sisters threeThat give to each their fate,AndSpaine’s Infantashall stand byWringing their hands, and thus shall cry,I do repent too late.

36.

At the Exchange shall placed be,

In ugly shapes those sisters three

That give to each their fate,

AndSpaine’s Infantashall stand by

Wringing their hands, and thus shall cry,

I do repent too late.

37.There we a paire of gloves will give,And pray her Highnesse long may liveOn her white hands to wear them;And though they have aSpanishscent,The givers have no ill intent,Wherefore she need not feare them.

37.

There we a paire of gloves will give,

And pray her Highnesse long may live

On her white hands to wear them;

And though they have aSpanishscent,

The givers have no ill intent,

Wherefore she need not feare them.

38.Nor shall the Conduits now run Claret,Perhaps theFrenchmancares not for it,They have at home so much,No, I will make the boy to pisseNo worse then purest Hypocris,Her Grace ne’re tasted such.

38.

Nor shall the Conduits now run Claret,

Perhaps theFrenchmancares not for it,

They have at home so much,

No, I will make the boy to pisse

No worse then purest Hypocris,

Her Grace ne’re tasted such.

39.About the Standard I think fitYour wives, my brethren, all should sit,And eke our Lady Mayris,Who shall present a cup of gold,And say if we might be bold,We’l drink to all inParis.

39.

About the Standard I think fit

Your wives, my brethren, all should sit,

And eke our Lady Mayris,

Who shall present a cup of gold,

And say if we might be bold,

We’l drink to all inParis.

40.InPaulsChurch-yard we breath may take,For they such huge long speeches make,Would tire any horse;But there I’le put her grace in minde,To cast her Princely head behindAnd view S.Paul’sCrosse.

40.

InPaulsChurch-yard we breath may take,

For they such huge long speeches make,

Would tire any horse;

But there I’le put her grace in minde,

To cast her Princely head behind

And view S.Paul’sCrosse.

41.Our Sergeants they shall go their way,And for us at the Devil stay,I mean at Temple-barre,And there of her we leave will take,And say ’twas for KingCharlshis sakeWe went with her so farre.

41.

Our Sergeants they shall go their way,

And for us at the Devil stay,

I mean at Temple-barre,

And there of her we leave will take,

And say ’twas for KingCharlshis sake

We went with her so farre.

42.But fearing I have tir’d the eares,Both of the Duke and all these Peeres,Ile be no more uncivill,Ile leave the Mayor with both the Sheriffs,With Sergeants, hanging at their sleeves,For this time at the Devill.

42.

But fearing I have tir’d the eares,

Both of the Duke and all these Peeres,

Ile be no more uncivill,

Ile leave the Mayor with both the Sheriffs,

With Sergeants, hanging at their sleeves,

For this time at the Devill.

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