burst And being let a while to lye 'T will drop 't will drop 't will drop 't will drop most prettily 4. The best of things in all the land You shall have Mars his onely wand Protecting of that pretty flower Which comes and goes in half an hour The flowers of vertue that do grow Because they 'l please all women so But when Mars draws back his wand It lyes it lyes it lyes 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 VVhat love of honour in your brests did turn Those sparks of fury into flames to burn Or was 't some higher cause were the hot gods Phoebus and Vulcan cold friends now at ods What er'e 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 Chimny Where you might see without or wit or sense Lay the sad ashes of an accidence What numbers here of Nowns to wrack did go As Domus Liber and as many moe In woful case no sex the flames did spare Each gender in this losse had common share There might you see the Rufull declinations Of 15. Pronouns and 4. Conjugations Some Gerunds Di but some Do overcome And some with heat and smoak are quite strook dumb Supines lay gasping upwards void of fences The moods were mad to see imperfect tences Adverbs of place threw down their lofty stories As ubi ibi illic intus foris Conjugations so disjoyn as you would wonder No coupling scarce but it was burnt asunder The Praepositions knew not where to be Each Interjection cry'd Heu woe is me For the due joyning of the things again A Neighbour call'd qui mihi comes amain Else sure the fire had into flames so turn'd Gods Men Months Rivers Winds and all had burn'd Now 'gan the flames the 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 VVisbech Bridge HElpe help you undertakers all Whose purses are the stronger Our bridge the falling sicknesse hath For it can stand no longer And come you cruel Watermen And lend your help toth ' town ' Its 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 th' enlarging of the streames Strook up the bridges heels It was too much strong water sure That made him drunk and reel And some do say he fell because His feet had no good landing I rather think the blockhead fell For want of understanding Although our Country suffer losse And at this downfall grudges It was the upstart-fluce that put Our aged bridge to 's Crutches The Lords will have it built again Much longer then 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 nose And some do say that Mr. Day Will give to it ten pound But he reply'd by they lyed He had rather see them drown'd But let not Wisbech be dismaid Nor at this losse complain For though our bridge a Bankrupt be VVe 'll set him up again T. R. Upon the fall of the Miter in Cambridge LAment Lament you schollers all Each wear his blackest gown The miter that upheld your wits Is now it self fallen down The dismall fire on London bridge Can move no heart of mine For that but ore the water stood But this stood ore the wine It needs must melt each Christians heart That this sad newes but hears To see how the poor hogs-heads wept Good Sack and Claret teares The zealous students of that place Change of Religion fear That this mischance may soon bring in The Heresie of Beer Unhappy miter I would know The cause of thy sad hap VVas it for making leggs too low To Pembrokes Cardinals cap Then know thy self and cringe no more Since Popery went down That cap should vaile 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 fox'd thy self and fell No sure the Devil was adry And caus'd this fatal blow 'T was he that made this celler 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 miter fall Poor Commoners to your great disgrace Yout want of skill acknowledge To let a Tavern fall that stood O' th' walls of your own Colledge The Rose now withers Falcon moults VVhite Sam enjoyes his wishes The Dolphin now must cast his Crown VVine was not made for fishes This sign a Tavern best becomes To shew who loves it best The miter is the onely sign For 't is the Schollers crest Thou Sam drink Sack and chear thy self Be not dismay'd at all For we will drink it up again Though we do catch the fall Wee l be thy workmen day and night In spite of Bug bear Proctors We drank like Frenchmen all before But now we 'll drink like Doctors T. R. A match at Cock-fighting GOe you tame Gallants you that have the name And would accounted be cocks of the game That have brave spurs to shew for 't and can crow And count all dunghill breed that cannot shew Such painted plumes as yours that thinkt no vice With cock-like lust to tread your cockatrice Though Peacocks Woodcocks Weathercocks you be If y' are no fighting cocks y' are not for me I of two feathered combatants will write He that to 'th life means to express their fight Must make his Ink their bloud which they did spill And from their dying wings borrow his quil No sooner was the doubtfull people set The matches made and all that would had bet But straight the skilful Judges of the play Bring forth their sharp-heel'd warriours and they Were both in linnen bags as if 't was meet Before they die to have had their winding sheet With that i' th' pit they 're put and when they were Both on their feet the Norfolk Chantecleer Looks stoutly on his ne're before seen foe And like a challenger begins to crow And shake his wings as that he did display His warlike colours which were black and gray Meane while the wary Wisbech walks and breaths His active body and in fury wreathes His comely crest and often looking down He whets his angry beake upon the ground With that they meet not like that coward breed Of Esope these can better fight then feed They scorn the dunghil 't is their onely prize To dig for Pearls in
when I 'me at leasure He that loves half a day sins without measure Cupid come tell me what art hath thy mother To make me love one face more then another 2. Men to be thought more wise daily endeavour To make the world believe they can love ever Ladies believe them not they will deceive you For when they have their wills then they will leave you 3. Men cannot feast themselves with your sweet features They love variety of charming creatures Too much of any thing sets them a cooling Though they can do nothing they wil be fooling Another Catch YOu say you love me and you swear it too But stay Sir 't will not do I know your oaths Just as your wearing cloaths Whil'st now and fresh in fashion But once grown old you lay them by Forgot like words were spoke in passion I 'le not believe you I. The Frollique THere 's none but the glad-man Compar'd to the mad-man Whose heart is still empty of care His fits and his fancies Are above all mischances And mirth is his ordinary fare Then be thou mad And he mad Mad all let us be There 's no men lead lives more merry than we The Tinkers 1. HA' you any work for a Tinker mistris Old brass old bowles old kettles I 'le mend them all with a faradiddle-twang And never harm your mettals 2. But first let me taste a cup of your Ale To steel me against cold weather For Tinkers fees are Vintners Lees Or Tobacco choose you whether 3. Then of your Ale of your nappy Ale I wish I had a firkin For I am old and very very cold Yet I never wore a Jerkin The Toper 1. HOld hold thy nose to the pot Tom Tom And hold thy nose to the pot Tom Tom 'T is thy pot And my pot And my pot And thy pot Sing hold thy nose to the pot Tom Tom. 2. 'T is malt that will cure thy maw Tom And heal thy distempers in Autumn Felix quem facient I prethee be patient Aliena pericula cautum 3. Then hold thy nose to the pot Tom Tom Hold hold thy nose to the pot Tom Tom. There 's neither Parson nor Vicar But will tosse off his liquor Sing hold thy nose to the pot Tom Tom. Half mild and half stale 1. UNderneath the Castle-wall the Queen of love sate mourning Tearing of her golden locks her red-rose cheeks adorning With her Lilly white hands she smote her brest And said she was forsaken With that the mountains they did skip And the hills fell all a quaking 2. Underneath the rotten hedge the Tinker's wife fate shiting Tearing of a Cabbidge leaf her shitten Ar a wiping With her cole-black hands she scratcht her Ar And swore she was beshitten With that the Pedlars all did skip And the Fidlers fell a spitting A Resolution not to marry IF she be fair I fear the rest If she be sweet I 'le hope the best If she be fair they 'l say she 'l do If she be foul she 'l do so too If she be fair she 'l breed suspect If she be foul she 'l breed neglect If she be born o' th' bettet sort Then she doth savour of the Court If she be of the City born She 'l give the City arms the Horn. If she be born of parents base I scorn her vertues for her place If she be fair and witty 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 Another 1. I Am resolv'd in my belief No woman has a soul But to delude that is the chief To which their fancies roul Else why should my Aemilia fail When she her faith had given Since oaths that either ears assail Recorded are in Heaven 2. But as the Chymists glowing fire Swels up his hope of prize Untill the spirits quite expire And so his fortune dies So though they seem to chirp and speak What we do most implore They but enflame us till we break And never mind us more Song I Prethee 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 drown'd thy self my muse For there is not a T. to chuse Most maides prove coy of late though they seem holyer 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 may yield to their desire For the burnt childe 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 e're shall be Sir reverence of your company Though her disdainfulness my heart hath cloven Yet I am of so stately a mind Nere to creep into her arse to bake in her oven 'T is an old Proverb that cat will to kind No I will say untill I die Farewel and behang'd that 's twice god buy Alas no rejoycing 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 'le fish for another She nought regards my aking heart Tell a mare a tale and she 'l let a fart I am as sure as my shooes 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 rob'd of her whelps Therefore of me it shall nere be said I have brought an old house upon my head Fall back fall edge I never will bound be To make a match with tag rag or longtale Best is best cheap if I miss not the naile Shall I toile gratis in their durt First they shall do as doth my shurt Solicitation to a marryed Woman THou dost deny me cause thou art a wife Know she that 's marryed lives a single life That loves but one abhor the nuptial curse Ty'd thee to him for better and for worse Variety delights the active bloud And women the more common the more good As all goods are their 's 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 't is as meet To change your bed-fellow as smock or sheet Say would you be content onely to eat Mutton or Beef and taste no other meat It would grow loathsome to you and I know You have two pallats and the best below Tom of Bedlam FRom forth the Elizian fields A place of restlesse soules Mad Maudlin is come to seek her naked Tom Hells fury she controules The damned laugh to see her Grim Plutoâ—colds â—colds and
Are the only ready wayes to be great Flattering will do the feat Ne're go ne're stir Have ventred farther Then the greatest of our Damme's in the Town From a Copper to a Crown 3. I am in an excellent humor now to think well And I 'me in another humor now to drink well Fill us up a Beer-bowl boy That we may drink it merrily And let none other see Nor cause to understand For if we do 't is ten to one we are Trepand 4. Come fill us up a brace of Quarts VVhose Anagram is call'd true hearts If all were true as I would ha' them And Britain were cur'd of its humor Then I should very well like my fate And drink off my wine at a freer rate Without any noise or rumor And then I should fix my humor 5. But since 't is no such matter change your hue I may cog and flatter so may you Religion Is a wigeon And reason Is treason And he that hath a noble heart may bid the world Adieu 6. We must be like the Scotish man Who with intent to beat down schism Brought forth a Presbyterian A Canon and a Catechism If Beuk won't do 't then Iocky shoot The Kirk of Scotland doth command And what hath bin since he come in I am sure we ha cause to understand Medley 1. The Scot. I Am the bonny Scot Sir My name is mickle Iohn 'T is I was in the plot Sir When first the wars began I left the Court one thousand Six hundred forty one But since the flight At Worster fight We all are undone I serv'd my Lord and Master When as he liv'd at home Untill by sad disaster He receiv'd his doom But now we sink Uds bred I think The Deel's gat in his room He ne man spares But stamps and stairs At all Christendom 2. I have travel'd mickle grounds Since I came from Worster bounds I have gang'd the jolly rounds Of the neighbouring nations And what their opinions are Of the Scotch and English war In geed faith I sal declare And their approbation Iockie swears He has his load Bears the rod Comes from God And complaints go very odd Since the siege at Worster VVe were wounded Tag and rag Foot and leg VVemb and crag Hark I hear the Dutchman bag And begin to bluster 3. The Dutch Uds Sacraments sal Hoghen Moghen States Strike down der top sails unto puny Powers Ten towsand tun of Tivel Dammy Fates If dat der ships and goods prove not all ours Since dat bloot and wounds do delight dem Tararara Trumpets sounds Let Van Tromp go fort and fight dem All de States shall first be crown'd English Skellam fight not on goat side Out at last de Flemins beat Dey ha giv'n us sush a broad-side Dat ick sal be forc't to retreat See de French-man he comes in complete 4. The French By Gat monsieur 'tis much in vain For Dushland France or Spain To crosse de English main De Nation now is grown so strong De Divla er 't be long Must learna de same tongue 'T is bettra den far to combine To sel dem wine And teasha dem to make der Laty fine Wee 'l teash dem for to trip and minsh To kick and winsh For by de swoâ—d we never sal convince Since every Brewer dere can beat a Prince 5. The Spaniard What are de English to quarrel so prone Dat dey cannot now adays let deir neighbour alone And sal de grave and de Catolique King Before ever dus control'd wid a sword a sling Sal bode de Indias be left unto desway And purity a dose dat do plunder and pray E're dat we will suffer such affronts for to be Wee 'l tumble dem down as you sal sennon see 6. The Welch Taffy was once a Cottamighty of Wales Put her Cosin O. P. was a Creater Was come in her Country Catsspluttery nailes Was take her welch hook and was peat her Was eat up her Sheese Her Tuck and her Geese Her Pick her Capon was ty for 't Ap Richard ap Owen ap Morgan ap Stâ—â—en Ap Sbinkin ap Powel was fly for 't 7. The Irish. O hone O hone poor Teg and shone O hone may howl and cry Saint Patrick help dy Country-men Or faiâ— and trot we die De English steal our hoatt of of Usquebagh Dey put us to de sword all in Dewguedagh Help us St. Patrick we ha no Saint at all but dee O let us cry no more O hone a cram a cree 8. The English A Crown a Crown make room The English man is come Whose valour Is taller Then all Christendom The Spanish French and Dutch Sâ—oech Welch and Irisâ— grutch We fear not We care not For we can deal with such You thought when we began in a civil war to wast Our tillage Your pillage Should come home at last For when we Could not agree You thought to share in our fall But nere stir Sir For first Sir We shall noose you all Medley 1. The English LEt the Trumpets sound And the rocks rebound Our English Natives comming Let the Nations swarm And the Princes storm We value not their drumming 'T is not France that looks so smug Old fashions still renewing It is not the Spanish shrug Scotish Cap or Irish rug Nor the Dutch-mans double jug Can help what is ensuing Pray my masters look about For something is a Brewing 2. He that is a Favorite consulting with Fortune If he grow not wiser then he 's quite undone In a rifing creature we daily see certainly He is a retreater that fails to go on He that in a Builder's trade Stops e're the roof be made By the aire he may be betray'd And overthrown He that hath a race begun And let 's the Goale be won He had better never run But let t'alone 3. Then plot rightly March sightly Shew your glittering arms brightly Charge hightly Fight sprightly Fortune gives renown A right riser Will prize her She makes all the world wiser Still try her Wee 'l gain by her A Coffin or a Crown 4. If the Dutchman or the Spaniard Come but to oppose us We will thrust them up at the main-yard If they do but but nose us Hans Hans think upon thy sins And then submit to Spain thy master For though now you look like friends Yet he will never trust you after Drink drink give the Dutchman drink And let the tap and kan run faster For faith at the last I think A Brewer will become your master 5. Let not poor Teg and Shone Vender from der houses Lest dey be quite undone In der very Trowzes And all der Orphans bestow'd under hatches And made in London free der to cry matches St. Patrick wid his Harp do tun'd wid tru string Is not fit to untie St. Hewson's shoos-strings 6. Methinks I hear The welch draw near And from each lock a louse trops Ap Shon ap LLoyd Will spen'd her ploot