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Title: Choyce Drollery: Songs and Sonnets - Being A Collection of Divers Excellent Pieces of Poetry, - of Several Eminent Authors.
Author: Various
Language: English
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Choyce Drollery.

[Illustration: _1661. Vide p. 107._

_J. W. Ebsworth sc. 1876_]

                            SONGS & SONNETS.


                    _A Collection of Divers Excellent
                           Pieces of Poetry_,

                       OF SEVERAL EMINENT AUTHORS.

             _Now First Reprinted from the Edition of 1656._

                          MERRY DROLLERY, 1661,
                                 AND AN
                   ANTIDOTE AGAINST MELANCHOLY, 1661:


          _With Special Introductions, and Appendices of Notes,
                Illustrations, Emendations of Text, &c._,

                 BY J. WOODFALL EBSWORTH, M.A., CANTAB.

                          BOSTON, LINCOLNSHIRE:
              Printed by _Robert Roberts_, Strait Bar-Gate.

                                TO THOSE

                            STUDENTS OF ART,

                           AMONG WHOM HE FOUND

                       Friendship and Enthusiasm;

                          BEFORE HE LEFT THEM,

                       WINNERS OF UNSULLIED FAME,

                       AND SOUGHT IN A QUIET NOOK

                       CONTENT, INSTEAD OF RENOWN:


                     “DROLLERIES OF THE RESTORATION”

                            ARE BY THE EDITOR




  DEDICATION                                                             v

  PRELUDE                                                               ix

  INTRODUCTION TO “CHOICE DROLLERY, 1656”                               xi

      § 1. HOW CHOICE DROLLERY WAS INHIBITED                            xi

        2. THE TWO COURTS IN 1656                                      xix

        3. SONGS OF LOVE AND WAR                                      xxvi

        4. CONCLUSION: THE PASTORALS                                xxxiii


  “CHOYCE DROLLERY,” 1656                                                1

  TABLE OF FIRST LINES TO DITTO                                        101


      § 1. REPRINT OF “ANTIDOTE”                                       105

        2. INGREDIENTS OF “AN ANTIDOTE”                                108

  ORIGINAL ADDRESS “TO THE READER,” 1661                               111

      ”    CONTENTS (ENLARGED)                                         112

  “ANTIDOTE AGAINST MELANCHOLY,” 1661                                  113

      ANTIDOTE. 2. ARTHUR O’BRADLEY                                    161



      PART 1. EXTRA SONGS                                              195

        ”  2. DITTO                                                    233


      1. “CHOICE DROLLERY”                                             259

      2. “ANTIDOTE AGAINST MELANCHOLY”                                 305

      3. “WESTMINSTER DROLLERY,” 1671-4                                333

      4. § 1. “MERRY DROLLERY,” 1661                                   345

           2. ADDITIONAL NOTES TO “M. D.,” 1670                        371

           3. SESSIONS OF POETS                                        405

           4. TABLES OF FIRST LINES                                    411

  FINALE                                                               423


    Not dim and shadowy, like a world of dreams,
  We summon back the past Cromwellian time,
  Raised from the dead by invocative rhyme,
    Albeit this no Booke of Magick seems:

    Now,—while few questions of the fleeting hour
  Cease to perplex, or task th’ unwilling mind,—
  Lest party-strife our better-Reason blind
    To the dread evils waiting still on Power.

    We see Old England torn by civil wars,
  Oppress’d by gloomy zealots—men whose chain
  More galled because of Regicidal stain,
    Hiding from view all honourable scars:

    We see how those who raved for Liberty,
  Claiming the Law’s protection ’gainst the King,
  Trampled themselves on Law, and strove to bring
    On their own nation tenfold Slavery.

    So that with iron hand, with eagle eye,
  Stout Oliver Protector scarce could keep
  The troubled land in awe; while mutterings deep
    Threatened to swell the later rallying cry.

    Well had he probed the hollow friends who stood
  Distrustful of him, though their tongues spoke praise;
  Well read their fears, that interposed delays
    To rob him of his meed for toil and blood.

    A few brief years of such uneasy strife,
  While foreign shores and ocean own his sway;
  Then fades the lonely Conqueror away,
    Amid success, weary betimes of life.

    So passing, kingly in his soul, uncrown’d,
  With dark forebodings of th’ approaching storm,
  He leaves the spoil at mercy of the swarm
    Of beasts unclean and vultures gathering round.

    For soon from grasp of Richard Cromwell slips
  Semblance of power he ne’er had strength to hold;
  And wolves each other tear, who tore the fold,
    While lurid twilight mocks the State’s eclipse.

    Then, from divided counsels, bitter snarls,
  Deceit and broken fealty, selfish aim—
  Where promptitude and courage win the game,—
    Self-scattered fall they; and up mounts
                            KING CHARLES.

                                           J. W. E.

_June 1st, 1876._


    _Charles._—“They say he is already in the forest of Arden, and
    a many merry men with him; and there they live like the old
    Robin Hood of England. They say many young gentlemen flock to
    him every day, and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in
    the golden world.”

                                  (_As You Like It_, Act i. sc. 1.)


We may be sure the memory of many a Cavalier went back to that sweetest
of all Pastorals, Shakespeare’s Comedy of “As You Like It,” while he
clutched to his breast the precious little volume of _Choyce Drollery,
Songs and Sonnets_, which was newly published in the year 1656. He sought
a covert amid the yellowing fronds of fern, in some old park that had
not yet been wholly confiscated by the usurping Commonwealth; where,
under the broad shadow of a beech-tree, with the squirrel watching him
curiously from above, and timid fawns sniffing at him suspiciously a few
yards distant, he might again yield himself to the enjoyment of reading
“heroick Drayton’s” _Dowsabell_, the love-tale beginning with the magic
words “Farre in the Forest of Arden”—an invocative name which summoned
to his view the Rosalind whose praise was carved on many a tree. He
also, be it remembered, had “a banished Lord;” even then remote from his
native Court, associating with “co-mates and brothers in exile”—somewhat
different in mood from Amiens or the melancholy Jacques; and, alas! not
devoid of feminine companions. Enough resemblance was in the situation
for a fanciful enthusiasm to lend enchantment to the name of Arden (p.
73), and recall scenes of shepherd-life with Celia, the songs that echoed
“Under the greenwood-tree;” without needing the additional spell of
seeing “Ingenious Shakespeare” mentioned among “the Time-Poets” on the
fifth page of _Choyce Drollery_.

Not easily was the book obtained; every copy at that time being hunted
after, and destroyed when found, by ruthless minions of the Commonwealth.
A Parliamentary injunction had been passed against it. Commands were
given for it to be burnt by the hangman. Few copies escaped, when spies
and informers were numerous, and fines were levied upon those who
had secreted it. Greedy eyes, active fingers, were after the _Choyce
Drollery_. Any fortunate possessor, even in those early days, knew well
that he grasped a treasure which few persons save himself could boast.
Therefore it is not strange, two hundred and twenty years having rolled
away since then, that the book has grown to be among the rarest of the
_Drolleries_. Probably not six perfect copies remain in the world. The
British Museum holds not one. We congratulate ourselves on restoring it
now to students, for many parts of it possess historical value, besides
poetic grace; and the whole work forms an interesting relic of those
troubled times.

Unlike our other _Drolleries_, reproduced _verbatim et literatim_ in this
series, we here find little describing the last days of Cromwell and the
Commonwealth; except one graphic picture of a despoiled West-Countryman
(p. 57), complaining against both Roundheads and “Cabbaleroes.” The
poems were not only composed before hopes revived of speedy Restoration
for the fugitive from Worcester-fight and Boscobel; they were, in great
part, written before the Civil Wars began. Few of them, perhaps, were
previously in print (the title-page asserts that _none_ had been so, but
we know this to be false). Publishers made such statements audaciously,
then as now, and forced truth to limp behind them without chance of
overtaking. By far the greater number belonged to an early date in the
reign of the murdered King, chiefly about the year 1637; two, at the
least, were written in the time of James I. (viz., p. 40, a contemporary
poem on the Gunpowder Plot of 1605; and, p. 10, the Ballad on King James
I.), if not also the still earlier one, on the Defeat of the Scots at
Muscleborough Field; which is probably corrupted from an original so
remote as the reign of Edward VI. “Dowsabell” was certainly among the
_Pastorals_ of 1593, and “Down lay the Shepherd’s swain” (p. 65) bears
token of belonging to an age when the Virgin Queen held sway. These
facts guide to an understanding of the charm held by _Choyce Drollery_
for adherents of the Monarchy; and of its obnoxiousness in the sight
of the Parliament that had slain their King. It was not because of
any exceptional immorality in this _Choyce Drollery_ that it became
denounced; although such might be declared in proclamations. Other books
of the same year offended worse against morals: for example, the earliest
edition known to us of _Wit and Drollery_, with the extremely “free”
_facetiæ_ of _Sportive Wit, or Lusty Drollery_ (both works issued in
1656), held infinitely more to shock proprieties and call for repression.
The _Musarum Deliciæ_ of Sir J[ohn] M[ennis] and Dr. J[ames] S[mith],
in the same year, 1656, cannot be held blameless. Yet the hatred
shewn towards _Choyce Drollery_ far exceeded all the rancour against
these bolder sinners, or the previous year’s delightful miscellany of
merriment and true poetry, the _Wit’s Interpreter_ of industrious J[ohn]
C[otgrave]; to whom, despite multitudinous typographical errors, we owe
thanks, both for _Wit’s Interpreter_ and for the wilderness of dramatic
beauties, his _Wit’s Treasury_: bearing the same date of 1655.

It was not because of sins against taste and public or private morals,
(although, we admit, it has some few of these, sufficient to afford
a pretext for persecutors, who would have been equally bitter had
it possessed virginal purity:) but in consequence of other and more
dangerous ingredients, that _Choyce Drollery_ aroused such a storm. Not
disgust, but fear of its influence in reviving loyalty, prompted the
order of its extermination. Readers at this later day, might easily fail
to notice all that stirred the loyal sentiments of chivalric devotion,
and consequently made the fierce Fifth-Monarchy men hate the small volume
worse than the _Apocrypha_ or _Ikon Basilike_. Herein was to be found
the clever “Jack of Lent’s” account of loyal preparations made in London
to receive the newly-wedded Queen, Henrietta Maria, when she came from
France, in 1625, escorted by the Duke of Buckingham, who compromised her
sister by his rash attentions: Buckingham, whom King Charles loved so
well that the favouritism shook his throne, even after Felton’s dagger
in 1628 had rid the land of the despotic courtier. Here, also, a more
grievous offence to the Regicides, was still recorded in austere grandeur
of verse, from no common hireling pen, but of some scholar like unto
Henry King, of Chichester, the loyal “New-Year’s Wish” (p. 48) presented
to King Charles at the beginning of 1638, when the North was already
in rebellion: wherein men read, what at that time had not been deemed
profanity or blasphemy, the praise and faithful service of some hearts
who held their monarch only second to their Saviour. Referring to their
hope that the personal approach of the King might cure the evils of the
disturbed realm, it is written:—

  “You, like our sacred and indulgent Lord,
  When the too-stout Apostle drew his sword,
  When he mistooke some secrets of the cause,
  And in his furious zeale disdained the Lawes,
  Forgetting true Religion doth lye
  On prayers, not swords against authority:
  You, like our substitute of horrid fate,
  That are next Him we most should imitate,
  Shall like to Him rebuke with wiser breath,
  Such furious zeale, but not reveng’d with death.
  Like him, the wound that’s giv’n you strait shall heal
  Then calm by precept such mistaking zeal.”

Here was a sincere, unflinching recognition of Divine Right, such as the
faction in power could not possibly abide. Even the culpable weakness
and ingratitude of Charles, in abandoning Strafford, Laud, and other
champions to their unscrupulous destroyers, had not made true-hearted
Cavaliers falter in their faith to him. As the best of moralists

                  “Love is not love
  Which alters when it alteration finds,
  Or bends with the remover to remove.”

These loyal sentiments being embodied in print within our _Choyce
Drollery_, suitable to sustain the fealty of the defeated Cavaliers to
the successor of the “Royal Martyr,” it was evident that the Restoration
must be merely a question of time. “If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it
be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, _yet it will come: the
readiness is all_!”

To more than one of those who had sat in the ill-constituted and
miscalled High Court of Justice, during the closing days of 1648-9, there
must have been, ever and anon, as the years rolled by, a shuddering
recollection of the words written anew upon the wall in characters of
living fire. They had shown themselves familiar, in one sense much too
familiar, with the phraseology but not the teaching of Scripture. To
them the _Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin_ needed no Daniel come to judgment
for interpretation. The Banquet was not yet over; the subjugated people,
whom they had seduced from their allegiance by a dream of winning freedom
from exactions, were still sullenly submissive; the desecrated cups and
challices of the Church they had despoiled, believing it overthrown for
ever, had been, in many cases, melted down for plunder,—in others, sold
as common merchandize: and yet no thunder heard. But, however defiantly
they might bear themselves, however resolute to crush down every
attempt at revolt against their own authority, the men in power could
not disguise from one another that there were heavings of the earth on
which they trod, coming from no reverberations of their footsteps, but
telling of hollowness and insecurity below. They were already suspicious
among themselves, no longer hiding personal spites and jealousies, the
separate ambition of uncongenial factions, which had only united for
a season against the monarchy and hierarchy, but now began to fall
asunder, mutually envenomed and intolerant. Presbyterian, Independent,
and Nondescript-Enthusiast, while combined together of late, had been
acknowledged as a power invincible, a Three-fold Cord that bound the
helpless Victim to an already bloody altar. The strands of it were now
unwinding, and there scarcely needed much prophetic wisdom to discern
that one by one they could soon be broken.

To us, from these considerations, there is intense attraction in the
_Choyce Drollery_, since it so narrowly escaped from flames to which it
had been judicially condemned.

§ 2.—THE TWO COURTS, IN 1656.

At this date many a banished or self-exiled Royalist, dwelling in the
Low Countries, but whose heart remained in England, drew a melancholy
contrast between the remembered past of Whitehall and the gloomy present.
With honest Touchstone, he could say, “Now am I in Arden! the more fool
I. When I was at home I was in a better place; but travellers must be

Meanwhile, in the beloved Warwickshire glades, herds of swine were
routing noisily for acorns, dropped amid withered leaves under branches
of the Royal Oaks. They were watched by boys, whose chins would not be
past the first callow down of promissory beards when Restoration-day
should come with shouts of welcome throughout the land.

In 1656 our Charles Stuart was at Bruges, now and then making a visit to
Cologne, often getting into difficulties through the misconduct of his
unruly followers, and already quite enslaved by Dalilahs, syrens against
whom his own shrewd sense was powerless to defend him. For amusement
he read his favourite French or Italian authors, not seldom took long
walks, and indulged himself in field sports:

  “_A merry monarch, scandalous and poor_.”

For he was only scantily supplied with money, which chiefly came from
France, but if he had possessed the purse of Fortunatus it could barely
have sufficed to meet demands from those who lived upon him. A year
before, the Lady Byron had been spoken of as being his seventeenth
Mistress abroad, and there was no deficiency of candidates for any vacant
place within his heart. Sooth to say, the place was never vacant, for it
yielded at all times unlimited accommodation to every beauty. Music and
dances absorbed much of his attention. So long as the faces around him
showed signs of happiness, he did not seriously afflict himself because
he was in exile, and a little out at elbows.

Such was the “Banished Duke” in his Belgian Court; poor substitute for
the Forest of Ardennes, not far distant. By all accounts, he felt “the
penalty of Adam, the season’s difference,” and in no way relished the
discomfort. He did not smile and say,

  “This is no flattery: these are counsellors
  That feelingly persuade me what I am.”

For, in truth, he much preferred avoiding such counsel, and relished
flattery too well to part with it on cheap terms. He never considered
the “rural life more sweet than that of painted pomp,” and, if all tales
of Cromwell’s machinations be held true, Charles by no means found the
home of exile “more free from peril than the envious court.” On the
other hand, his own proclamation, dated 3rd May, 1654, offering an
annuity of five hundred pounds, a Colonelcy and Knighthood, to any person
who should destroy the Usurper (“a certain mechanic fellow, by name
Oliver Cromwell!”), took from him all moral right of complaint against
reprisals: unless, as we half-believe, this proclamation were one of the
many forgeries. As to any sweetness in “the uses of Adversity,” Charles
might have pleaded, with a laugh, that he had known sufficient of them
already to be cloyed with it.

The men around him were of similar opinion. A few, indeed, like Cowley
and Crashaw, were loyal hearts, whose devotion was best shown in times
of difficulty. Not many proved of such sound metal, but there lived some
“faithful found among the faithless”; and

            “He that can endure
  To follow with allegiance a fallen lord,
  Does conquer him that did his master conquer,
  And earns a place in the story.”

The Ladies of the party scarcely cared for anything beyond
self-adornment, rivalry, languid day-dreams of future greatness, and the
encouragement of gallantry.

There was not one among them who for a moment can bear comparison with
the Protector’s daughter, Elizabeth Claypole—perhaps the loveliest female
character of all recorded in those years. Everything concerning her
speaks in praise. She was the good angel of the house. Her father loved
her, with something approaching reverence, and feared to forfeit her
conscientious approval more than the support of his companions in arms.
In worship she shrank from the profane familiarity of the Sectaries,
and devotedly held by the Church of England. She is recorded to have
always used her powerful influence in behalf of the defeated Cavaliers,
to obtain mercy and forbearance. Her name was whispered, with blessing
implored upon it, in the prayers of many whom she alone had saved from
death.[1] No personal ambition, no foolish pride and ostentation marked
her short career. The searching glare of Court publicity could betray
no flaw in her conduct or disposition; for the heart was sound within,
her religion was devoid of all hypocrisy. Her Christian purity was
too clearly stainless for detraction to dare raise one murmur. She is
said to have warmly pleaded in behalf of Doctor Hewit, who died upon
the scaffold with his Royalist companion, Sir Harry Slingsby, the 8th
of June, 1658 (although she rejoiced in the defeat of their plot, as
her extant letter proves). Cromwell resisted her solicitations, urged
to obduracy by his more ruthless Ironsides, who called for terror to
be stricken into the minds of all reactionists by wholesale slaughter
of conspirators. Soon after this she faded. It was currently reported
and believed that on her death-bed, amid the agonies and fever-fits,
she bemoaned the blood that had been shed, and spoke reproaches to
the father whom she loved, so that his conscience smote him, and the
remembrance stayed with him for ever.[2] She was only twenty-nine when
at Hampton Court she died, on the 6th of August, 1658. Less than a month
afterwards stout Oliver’s heart broke. Something had gone from him,
which no amount of power and authority could counter-balance. He was
not a man to breathe his deeper sorrows into the ear of those political
adventurers or sanctified enthusiasts whose glib tongues could rattle off
the words of consolation. While she was slowly dying he had still tried
to grapple with his serious duties, as though undisturbed. Her prayers
and her remonstrances had been powerless of late to make him swerve. But
now, when she was gone, the hollow mockery of what power remained stood
revealed to him plainly; and the Rest that was so near is not unlikely to
have been the boon he most desired. It came to him upon his fatal day,
his anniversary of still recurring success and happy fortune; came, as
is well known, on September 3rd, 1658. The Destinies had nothing better
left to give him, so they brought him death. What could be more welcome?
Very few of these who reach the summit of ambition, as of those other who
most lamentably failed, and became bankrupt of every hope, can feel much
sadness when the messenger is seen who comes to lead them hence,—from a
world wherein the jugglers’ tricks have all grown wearisome, and where
the tawdry pomp or glare cannot disguise the sadness of Life’s masquerade.

  “Naught’s had—all’s spent,
  When our desire is got without content:
  ’Tis safer to be that which we destroy,
  Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.”


It was still 1656, of which we write (the year of _Choyce Drollery_ and
_Parnassus Biceps_, of _Wit and Drollery_ and of _Sportive Wit_); not
1658: but shadows of the coming end were to be seen. Already it was
evident that Cromwell sate not firmly on the throne, uncrowned, indeed,
but holding power of sovereignty. His health was no longer what it had
been of old. The iron constitution was breaking up. Yet was he only nine
months older than the century. In September his new Parliament met; if
it can be called a Parliament in any sense, restricted and coerced alike
from a free choice and from free speech, pledged beforehand to be servile
to him, and holding a brief tenure of mock authority under his favour.
They might declare his person sacred, and prohibit mention of Charles
Stuart, whose regal title they denounced. But few cared what was said or
done by such a knot of praters. More important was the renewed quarrel
with Spain; and all parties rejoiced when gallant Blake and Montague fell
in with eight Spanish ships off Cadiz, captured two of them and stranded
others. There had been no love for that rival fleet since the Invincible
Armada made its boast in 1588; but what had happened in “Bloody Mary’s”
reign, after her union with Philip, and the later cruelties wrought under
Alva against the patriots of the Netherlands, increased the national
hatred. We see one trace of this renewed desire for naval warfare in the
appearance of the Armada Ballad, “In eighty-eight ere I was born,” on
page 38 of our _Choyce Drollery_: the earliest copy of it we have met in
print. Some supposed connection of Spanish priestcraft with the Gunpowder
Plot of 1605 (Guido Faux and several of the Jesuits being so accredited
from the Low Country wars), may have caused the early poem on this
subject to be placed immediately following.

But the chief interest of the book, for its admirers, lay not in
temporary allusions to the current politics and gossip. Furnishing these
were numerous pamphlets, more or less venomous, circulating stealthily,
despite all watchfulness and penalties. Next year, 1657, “Killing no
Murder” would come down, as if showered from the skies; but although
hundreds wished that somebody else might act on the suggestions, already
urged before this seditious tract appeared, not one volunteer felt called
upon to immolate himself to certain death on the instant by standing
forward as the required assassin. Cautious thinkers held it better to
bide their time, and await the natural progress of events, allowing all
the enemies of Charles and Monarchy to quarrel and consume each other.
Probably the bulk of country farmers and their labourers cared not one
jot how things fell out, so long as they were left without exorbitant
oppression; always excepting those who dwelt where recently the hoof
of war-horse trod, and whose fields and villages bore still the trace
of havoc. Otherwise, the interference with the Maypole dance, and such
innocent rural sports, by the grim enemies to social revelry, was felt to
be a heavier sorrow than the slaughter of their King.[3] So long as wares
were sold, and profits gained, Town-traders held few sentiments of favour
towards either camp. It was (owing to the parsimony of Parliament, and
his continual need of supplies to be obtained without their sanction,)
the frequency of his exactions, the ship-money, the forced loans, and the
uncertainty of ever gaining a repayment, which had turned many hearts
against King Charles I., in his long years of difficulty, before shouts
arose of “Privilege.” But for the cost of wasteful revels at Court, with
gifts to favourites, the expense of foreign or domestic wars, there would
have been no popular complaint against tyranny. Citizens care little
about questions of Divine Right and Supremacy, _pro_ or _con_, so long
as they are left unfettered from growing rich, and are not called on to
disgorge the wealth they swallowed ravenously, perhaps also dishonestly.
Some remembrance of this fact possessed the Cavaliers, even before George
Monk came to burst the city gates and chains. The Restoration confirmed
the same opinion, and the later comedies spoke manifold contempt against
time-serving traders; who cheated gallant men of money and land, but in
requital were treated like Acteon.

Although, in 1656, disquiet was general, amid contemporary records we may
seek far before we meet a franker and more manly statement of the honest
Englishman’s opinion, despising every phase of trickery in word, deed, or
visage, than the poem found in _Choyce Drollery_, p. 85,—“The Doctor’s
Touchstone.” There were, doubtless, many whose creed it stated rightly. A
nation that could feel thus, would not long delay to pluck the mask from
sanctimonious hypocrites, and drag “The Gang” from out their saddle.

Here, too, are the love-songs of a race of Poets who had known the
glories of Whitehall before its desecration. Here are the courtly praises
of such beauties as the Lady Elizabeth Dormer, 1st Countess of Carnarvon,
who, while she held her infant in her arms, in 1642, was no less
fascinating than she had been in her virgin bloom. The airy trifling,
dallying with conceits in verse, that spoke of a refinement and graceful
idlesse more than passionate warmth, gave us these relics of such men as
Thomas Carew, who died in 1638, before the Court dissolved into a Camp.
Some of them recal the strains of dramatists, whose only actresses had
been Ladies of high birth, condescending to adorn the Masques in palaces,
winning applause from royal hands and voices. These, moreover, were
“Songs and Sonnets” which the best musicians had laboured skilfully to
clothe anew with melody: Poems already breathing their own music, as they
do still, when lutes and virginals are broken, and the composer’s score
has long been turned into gun-wadding.

What sweetness and true pathos are found among them, readers can study
once more. The opening poem, by Davenant, is especially beautiful, where
a Lover comforts himself with a thought of dying in his Lady’s presence,
and being mourned thereafter by her, so that she shall deck his grave
with tears, and, loving it, must come and join him there:—

  “Yet we hereafter shall be found
    By Destiny’s right placing,
  Making, like Flowers, Love under ground,
    Whose roots are still embracing.”[4]

Seeing, alongside of these tender pleadings from the worshipper of
Beauty, some few pieces where the taint of foulness now awakens our
disgust, we might feel wonder at the contrast in the same volume, and the
taste of the original collector, were not such feeling of wonder long ago
exhausted. Queen Elizabeth sate out the performance of _Love’s Labour’s
Lost_ (if tradition is to be believed), and was not shocked at some free
expressions in that otherwise delightful play;—words and inuendoes,
let us own, which were a little unsuited to a Virgin Queen. Again, if
another tradition be trustworthy, she herself commissioned the comedy
of _Merry Wives of Windsor_ to be written and acted, in order that she
might see Falstaffe in love: but after that Eastcheap Boar’s-Head Tavern
scene, with rollicking Doll Tear-sheet, in the Second Part of _Henry
IV._, surely her sedate Majesty might have been prepared to look for
something very different from the proprieties of “Religious Courtship” or
the refinements of Platonic affection in the Knight, who, having “more
flesh than other men,” pleads this as an excuse for his also having more

Suppose we own at once, that there is a great deal of falsehood and
mock-modesty in the talk which ever anon meets us, the Puritanical
squeamishness of each extremely moral (undetected) Tartuffe, acting as
Aristarchus; who cannot, one might think, be quite ignorant of what
is current in the newspaper-literature of our own time.[5] The fact
is this, people now-a-days keep their dishes of spiced meat and their
Barmecide show-fasts separate. They sip the limpid spring before company,
and keep hidden behind a curtain the forbidden wine of Xeres, quietly
iced, for private drinking. Our ancestors took a taste of both together,
and without blushing. Their cup of nectar had some “allaying Tyber” to
abate “the thirst complaint.” They did not label their books “Moral
and Theological, for the public Ken,” or “Vice, _sub rosa_, for our
locked-cabinet!” _Parlons d’autres choses, Messieurs, s’il vous plâit._


There were good reasons for Court and country being associated ideas,
if only in contrast. Thus Touchstone states, when drolling with Colin,
as to a Pastoral employment:—“Truly, shepherd in respect of itself it
is a good life; but in respect it is not in the Court, it is tedious.”
The large proportion of pastoral songs and poems in _Choyce Drollery_
is one other noticeable characteristic. Even as Utopian schemes, with
dreams of an unrealized Republic where laws may be equally administered,
and cultivation given to all highest arts or sciences, are found to be
most popular in times of discontent and tyranny, when no encouragement
for hope appears in what the acting government is doing; even so, amid
luxurious times, with artificial tastes predominant, there is always a
tendency to dream of pastoral simplicity, and to sing or paint the joys
of rural life. In the voluptuous languor of Miladi’s own _boudoir_, amid
scented fumes of pastiles and flowers, hung round with curtains brought
from Eastern palaces, Watteau, Greuze, Boucher, and Bachelier were
employed to paint delicious panels of bare-feeted shepherdesses, herding
their flocks with ribbon-knotted crooks and bursting bodices; while
goatherd-swains, in satin breeches and rosetted pumps, languish at their
side, and tell of tender passion through a rustic pipe. The contrast of
a wimpling brook, birds twittering on the spray, and daintiest hint of
hay-forks or of reaping-hooks, enhanced with piquancy, no doubt, the
every-day delights of fashionable wantonness. And as it was in such later
times with courtiers of _La belle France_ surrounding Louis XV., so in
the reign of either Charles of England—the Revolution Furies crept nearer

Recurrence to Pastorals in _Choyce Drollery_ is simply in accordance
with a natural tendency of baffled Cavaliers, to look back again to all
that had distinguished the earlier days of their dead monarch, before
Puritanism had become rampant. Even Milton, in his youthful “Lycidas,”
1637, showed love for such Idyllic transformation of actual life into a
Pastoral Eclogue. (A bitter spring of hatred against the Church was even
then allowed to pollute the clear rill of Helicon: in him thereafter
that Marah never turned to sweetness.) Some of these Pastorals remain
undiscovered elsewhere. But there can be no mistaking the impression left
upon them by the opening years of the seventeenth, if not more truly the
close of the sixteenth, century. Dull, plodding critics have sneered at
Pastorals, and wielded their sledge-hammers against the Dresden-china
Shepherdesses, as though they struck down Dagon from his pedestal. What
then? Are we forbidden to enjoy, because their taste is not consulted?——

    “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 smiling _virtuosi_, 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 falsehood and 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

  “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

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 his _Chloris_ fled; 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 of _Choyce 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 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._

Choyce Drollery: Songs & Sonnets.

                            SONGS & SONNETS.

                    A Collection of divers excellent
                            pieces of Poetry,

                        Severall eminent Authors.

                         _Never before printed._



             Printed by _J. G._ for _Robert Pollard_, at the
               _Ben. Johnson’s_ head behind the Exchange,
                       and _John Sweeting_, at the
                      _Angel_ in Popes-Head Alley.


To the READER.

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._






_The broken Heart._


  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.


  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.


  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.


  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.


  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.


  Such Flowers how much will _Flora_ prise,
  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.


  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.

_Of a Woman that died for love of a Man._

  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 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,
  With _Icarus_ I soare[d] too high,
  For which (alas) I fall and dye.

On the _TIME-POETS_.

  One night the great _Apollo_ pleas’d with _Ben_,
  Made the odde number of the Muses ten;
  The fluent _Fletcher_, _Beaumont_ rich in sense,
  In Complement and Courtships quintessence;
  Ingenious _Shakespeare_, _Massinger_ that 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-grapling _Chapman_, 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 composing _Quarles_, whose lines aspire
  The April of all Poesy in May, [_Tho. May._]
  Who makes our English speak _Pharsalia_;
  _Sands_ metamorphos’d so into another [_Sandys_]
  We know not _Sands_ and _Ovid_ from each other;
  He that so well on _Scotus_ play’d the Man,
  The famous _Diggs_, or _Leonard Claudian_;
  The pithy _Daniel_, whose salt lines afford
  A weighty sentence in each little word;
  Heroick _Draiton_, _Withers_, smart in Rime,
  The very Poet-Beadles of the Time:
  Panns pastoral _Brown_, whose infant Muse did squeak
  At eighteen yeares, better than others speak:
  _Shirley_ the morning-child, the Muses bred,
  And sent him born with bayes upon his head:
  Deep in a dump _Iohn Ford_ alone was got
  With folded armes and melancholly hat;
  The squibbing _Middleton_, and _Haywood_ sage,
  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 in _Parnassus_ pump;
  The Muses Gossip to _Aurora’s_ bed,
  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 had _Alectors_ torch, [_Alecto’s_]
  And that made _Churchyard_ follow 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,
  And _Decker_ followed after in a dream;
  _Rounce_, _Robble_, _Hobble_, he that writ so high big[;]
  Basse for a Ballad, _John Shank_ for a Jig: [_Wm. Basse._]
  Sent by _Ben Jonson_, as some Authors say,
  _Broom_ went before and kindly swept the way:
  Old _Chaucer_ welcomes them unto the Green,
  And _Spencer_ brings 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.

_The Vow-breaker._

  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 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 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.

_The Sympathie._

  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 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.

  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?

_The Red Head and the White._


  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’s ANSWER.]

  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 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.’s ANSWER.]

  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.


  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.’s ANSWER.]

  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.


  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 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.


  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 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.


  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 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.


  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.


  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 clouds
  The beauty of my Mistris shrouds,
  To look after another Star?
  Those to _Cynthia_ servants 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.

_On the Flower-de-luce in ~Oxford~._

  A Stranger coming to the town,
    Went to the _Flower-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 disease
    It was his hap to light.

  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,
  The _Frenchmens_ arms are signs without
    Of _Frenchmens_ harms within.

_ALDOBRANDINO, a fat Cardinal._

  Never was humane soule so overgrown,
  With an unreasonable Cargazon
  Of flesh, as _Aldobrandine_, 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 in _Rome_,
  And as the learn’d _Tostatus_ kept 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 new _Dedalus_ invented how
  This Bull with his _Pasiphae_ might 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. _Peters_ lay:
  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:
      Blest _Icarus_ first 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 as _Andromeda_ at the Rock,
  And through the Skies see her wing’d _Perseus_ strike
  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.

_Jack of Lent’s Ballat._

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


  List you Nobles, and attend,
  For here’s a Ballat newly penn’d
              I took it up in _Kent_,
  If any ask who made the same,
  To him I say the authors name
              Is honest _Jack of Lent_.


  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.


  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.


  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.


  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.


  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.


  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.


  And might but _Jack Alent_ advise,
  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.


  The Romish Catholiques proclaim,
  That _Gundemore_, though he be lame,
              Yet can he do some tricks;
  At _Paris_, he the King shall show
  A pre-contract made, as I know,
              Five hundred twenty six.


  But sure the State of _France_ is wise,
  And knowes that _Spain_ vents 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.


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


  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.


  At _Cambridge_ and at _Oxford_ eke,
  They of this match like Schollers speak
              By figures and by tropes,
  But as for the Supremacy,
  The Body may King _James’s_ be,
              But sure the Head’s the _Pope’s_.


  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.


  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.


  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.


  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.


  And those that do _Apollo_ court,
  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.


  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.


  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.


  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.


  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.


  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.


  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.


  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.


  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.


  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,
              At _Pauls_ she may hear Lattin.


  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.


  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.


  No, no, I have it in my head,
  Devises that shall strike it dead,
              And make proud _Paris_ say
  That little _London_ hath a Mayor
  Can entertain their Lady faire,
              As well as ere did they.


  S. _Georges_ Church 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. _Dennis_ to me.


  From thence in order two by two
  As we to _Pauls_ are 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.


  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.


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


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


  At the Exchange shall placed be,
  In ugly shapes those sisters three
              That give to each their fate,
  And _Spaine’s Infanta_ shall stand by
  Wringing their hands, and thus shall cry,
              I do repent too late.


  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 a _Spanish_ scent,
  The givers have no ill intent,
              Wherefore she need not feare them.


  Nor shall the Conduits now run Claret,
  Perhaps the _Frenchman_ cares 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.


  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 in _Paris._


  In _Pauls_ Church-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’s_ Crosse.


  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 King _Charls_ his sake
              We went with her so farre.


  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.


  A Story strange I will you tell,
    But not so strange as true,
  Of a woman that danc’d upon the ropes,
    And so did her husband too.
        _With a dildo, dildo, dildo,_
          _With a dildo, dildo, dee,_
        _Some say ’twas a man, but it was a woman_
          _As plain report may see._

  She first climb’d up the Ladder
    For to deceive men’s hopes,
  And with a long thing in her hand
    She tickled it on the ropes.
        _With a dildo, dildo, dildo,_
          _With a dildo, dildo, dee,_
        _And to her came Knights and Gentlemen_
          _Of low and high degree._

  She jerk’d them backward and foreward
    With a long thing in her hand,
  And all the people that were in the yard,
    She made them for to stand.
        _With a dildo, &c._

  They cast up fleering eyes
    All under-neath her cloaths,
  But they could see no thing,
    For she wore linnen hose.
        _With a dildo, &c._

  The Cuckold her husband caper’d
    When his head in the sack was in,
  But grant that we may never fall
    When we dance in the sack of sin.
        _With a dildo, &c._

  And as they ever danc’t
    In faire or rainy weather,
  I wish they may be hang’d i’ th’ rope of Love,
    And so be cut down together.
        _With a dildo, &c._

_Upon a House of Office over a River, set on fire by a coale of TOBACCO._

  Oh fire, fire, fire, where?
  The usefull house o’re Water cleare,
  The most convenient in a shire,
        _Which no body can deny,_

  The house of Office that old true blue
  Sir-reverence so many knew[,]
  You now may see turn’d fine new. [? fire]
        _Which no body, &c._

  And to our great astonishment
  Though burnt, yet stands to represent
  Both mourner and the monument,
        _Which no body, &c._

  _Ben Johnson’s_ Vulcan would doe well,
  Or the merry Blades who knacks did tell,
  At firing _London Bridge_ befell.
        _Which no body, &c._

  They’l say if I of thee should chant,
  The matter smells, now out upon’t;
  But they shall have a fit of fie on’t.
        _Which no body_, &c.

  And why not say a word or two
  Of she that’s just? witness all who
  Have ever been at thy Ho go,[6]
        _Which no body_, &c.

  Earth, Aire, and Water, she could not
  Affront, till chollerick fire got
  Predominant, then thou grew’st hot,
        _Which no body_, &c.

  The present cause of all our wo,
  But from Tobacco ashes, oh!
  ’Twas s...n luck to perish so,
        _Which no body_, &c.

  ’Tis fatall to be built on lakes,
  As Sodom’s fall example makes;
  But pity to the innocent jakes,
        _Which no body_, &c.

  Whose genius if I hit aright,
  May be conceiv’d Hermophrodite,
  To both sex common when they sh...
        _Which no body_, &c.

  Of severall uses it hath store,
  As Midwifes some do it implore,
  But the issue comes at Postern door:
        _Which no body_, &c.

  Retired mortalls out of feare,
  Privily, even to a haire,
  Did often do their business there,
        _Which no body_, &c.

  For mens and womens secrets fit
  No tale-teller, though privy to it,
  And yet they went to’t without feare or wit,
        _Which no body_, &c.

  A Privy Chamber or prison’d roome,
  And all that ever therein come
  Uncover must, or bide the doome,
        _Which no body_, &c.

  A Cabinet for richest geare
  The choicest of the Ladys ware,
  And pretious stones full many there.
        _Which no body_, &c.

  And where in State sits noble duck,
  Many esteem that use of nock,
  The highest pleasure next to oc-
        _Which no body_, &c.

  And yet the hose there down did goe,
  The yielding smock came up also,
  But still no Bawdy house I trow,
        _Which no body_, &c.

  There nicest maid with naked r...,
  When straining hard had made her mump,
  Did sit at ease and heare it p...,
        _Which no body_, &c.

  Like the Dutch Skipper now may skit,
  When in his sleeve he did do it,
  She may skit free, but now plimp niet,
        _Which no body_, &c.

  Those female folk that there did haunt,
  To make their filled bellies gaunt,
  And with that same the brook did launt,
        _Which no body_, &c.

  Are driven now to do’t on grasse,
  And make a sallet for their A...
  The world is come to a sweet passe,
        _Which no body_, &c.

  Now farewell friend we held so deare,
  Although thou help’st away with our cheare,
  An open house-keeper all the yeare,
        _Which no body_, &c.

  The Phœnix in her perfumed flame,
  Was so consum’d, and thou the same,
  But the Aromaticks were to blame,
        _Which no body_, &c.

  That Phœnix is but one thing twice,
  Thy Patron nobler then may rise,
  For who can tell what he’l devise?
        _Which no body_, &c.

  _Diana’s_ Temple was not free,
  Nor that world _Rome_, her Majesty
  Smelt of the smoke, as well as thee,
        _Which no body_, &c.

  And learned Clerks whom we admire,
  Do say the world shall so expire,
  Then when you sh... remember fire.
        _Which no body_, &c.

  Beware of fire when you scumber,
  Though to sh... fire were a wonder,
  Yet lightning oft succeeds the thunder,
        _Which no body_, &c.

  We must submit to what fate sends,
  ’Tis wholsome counsel to our friends,
  Take heed of smoking at both ends,
        _Which no body can deny._

_Upon the Spanish Invasion in Eighty eight._


  In _Eighty eight_, ere I was born,
  As I do well remember a,
  In _August_ was a Fleet prepar’d
  The month before _September_ a.


  _Lisbone_, _Cales_ and _Portugall_ [_Cales_, i.e. _Cadiz_.]
  _Toledo_ and _Grenada_;
  They all did meet, & made a Fleet,
  And call’d it their _Armada_.


  There dwelt a little man in _Spain_
  That shot well in a gun a;
  _Don Pedro_ hight, as black a wight
  As the Knight of the Sun a.


  King _Philip_ made him Admirall,
  And charg’d him not to stay a,
  But to destroy both man and boy,
  And then to come his way a.


  He had thirty thousand of his own,
  But to do us more harm a,
  He charg’d him not to fight alone,
  But to joyn with the Prince of _Parma_.


  They say they brought provision much
  As Biskets, Beans and Bacon,
  Besides, two ships were laden with whips,
  But I think they were mistaken.


  When they had sailed all along,
  And anchored before _Dover_,
  The English men did board them then,
  And heav’d the Rascalls over.


  The queen she was at _Tilbury_,
  What could you more desire a?
  For whose sweet sake Sir _Francis Drake_
  Did set the ships on fire a.


  Then let them neither brag nor boast,
  For if they come again a,
  Let them take heed they do not speed
  As they did they know when a.

_Upon the Gun-powder Plot._


  And will this wicked world never prove good?
  Will Priests and Catholiques never prove true?
  Shall _Catesby_, _Piercy_ and _Rookwood_
  Make all this famous Land to rue?
  With putting us in such a feare,
    _With huffing and snuffing and guni-powder,_
    _With a Ohone hononoreera tarrareera, tarrareero hone._


  ’Gainst the fifth of _November_, Tuesday by name,
  _Peircy_ and _Catesby_ a Plot did frame,
  _Anno_ one thousand six hundred and five,
  In which long time no man alive
  Did ever know, or heare the like,
  Which to declare my heart growes sike.
      _With a O hone_, &c.


  Under the Parliament-house men say
  Great store of Powder they did lay,
  Thirty six barrels, as is reported,
  With many faggots ill consorted,
  With barres of iron upon them all,
  To bring us to a deadly fall.
      _With a O hone_, &c.


  And then came forth Sir _Thomas Knyvet_,
  You filthy Rogue come out o’ th’ doore,
  Or else I sweare by Gods trivet
  Ile lay thee flatlong on the floore,
  For putting us all in such a feare,
      _With huffing and snuffing_, &c.


  Then _Faux_ out of the vault was taken
  And carried before Sir _Francis Bacon_,
  And was examined of the Act,
  And strongly did confesse the Fact,
  And swore he would put us in such a feare.
      _With huffing_, &c.


  Now see it is a miraculous thing,
  To see how God hath preserv’d our King,
  The Queen, the Prince, and his Sister dear,
  And all the Lords, and every Peere,
  And all the Land, and every shire,
      _From huffing_, &c.


  Now God preserve the Council wise,
  That first found out this enterprise;
  Not they, but my Lord _Monteagle_,
  His Lady and her little Beagle,
  His Ape, his Ass, and his great Beare,
      _From huffing, and snuffing, and gunni-powder._


  Other newes I heard moreover,
  If all was true that’s told to me,
  Three Spanish ships landed at _Dover_,
  Where they made great melody,
  But the Hollanders drove them here and there,
      _With huffing_, &c.


  Drink boyes, drink boyes, drink and doe not spare,
    Troule away the bowl, and take no care.
  So that we have meat and drink, and money and clothes
  What care we, what care we how the world goes.

_A pitiful Lamentation._

  My Mother hath sold away her Cock
  And all her brood of Chickins,
  And hath bought her a new canvasse smock
  And righted up the Kitchin.
  And has brought me a Lockeram bond
  With a v’lopping paire of breeches,
  Thinking that _Jone_ would have lov’d me alone,
  But she hath serv’d me such yfiches.
  Ise take a rope and drowne my selfe,
  Ere Ist indure these losses:
  Ise take a hatchet and hang my selfe
  Ere Ist indure these crosses.
  Or else Ile go to some beacon high,
  Made of some good dry’d furzon[,]
  And there Ile seeme in love to fry
  Sing hoodle a doodle Cuddon.

_A Woman with Child that desired a Son, which might prove a Preacher._

  A maiden of the _pure Society_,
  Pray’d with a passing piety
  That since a learned man had o’re-reacht her,
  The child she went withall should prove [a] Preacher.
  The time being come, and all the dangers past,
  The Goodwife askt the Midwife
  What God had sent at last.
  Who answer’d her half in a laughter,
  Quoth she the Son is prov’d a Daughter.
  But be content, if God doth blesse the Baby,
  She has a _Pulpit_ where a _Preacher_ may be.

_The Maid of ~Tottenham~._


  As I went to _Totnam_
  Upon a Market-day,
  There met I with a faire maid
  Cloathed all in gray,
  Her journey was to _London_
  With Buttermilk and Whay,
      _To fall down, down, derry down,_
          _down, down, derry down,_
          _derry, derry dina_.


  God speed faire maid, quoth one,
  You are well over-took;
  With that she cast her head aside,
  And gave to him a look.
  She was as full of Leachery
  As letters in a book.
          _To fall down_, &c.


  And as they walk’d together,
  Even side by side,
  The young man was aware
  That her garter was unty’d,
  For feare that she should lose it,
  Aha, alack he cry’d,
  Oh your garter that hangs down!
          _Down, down, derry down_, &c.


  Quoth she[,] I do intreat you
  For to take the pain
  To do so much for me,
  As to tye it up again.
  That will I do sweet-heart, quoth he,
  When I come on yonder plain.
          _With a down, down, derry down_, &c.


  And when they came upon the plain
  Upon a pleasant green,
  The fair maid spread her l...s abroad,
  The young man fell between,
  Such tying of a Garter
  I think was never seen.
          _To fall down_, &c.


  When they had done their businesse,
  And quickly done the deed,
  He gave her kisses plenty,
  And took her up with speed.
  But what they did I know not,
  But they were both agreed
          _To fall down together, down_
          _Down, down, derry down,_
          _Down, down, derry dina_.


  She made to him low curtsies
  And thankt him for his paine,
  The young man is to High-gate gone[,]
  The maid to _London_ came
  To sell off her commodity
  She thought it for no shame.
          _To fall downe_, &c.


  When she had done her market,
  And all her money told
  To think upon the matter
  It made her heart full cold[:]
  But that which will away, quoth she,
  Is very hard to hold.
          _To fall down_, &c.


  This tying of the Garter
  Cost her her Maidenhead,
  Quoth she it is no matter,
  It stood me in small stead,
  But often times it troubled me
  As I lay in my bed.
          _To fall down_, &c.

_To the King on New-yeares day, 1638._

  This day inlarges every narrow mind,
  Makes the Poor bounteous, and the Miser kind;
  Poets that have not wealth in wisht excesse,
  I hope may give like Priests, which is to blesse.
  And sure in elder times the Poets were
  Those Priests that told men how to hope and feare,
  Though they most sensually did write and live,
  Yet taught those blessings, which the Gods did give,
  But you (my King) have purify’d our flame,
  Made wit our virtue which was once our shame;
  For by your own quick fires you made ours last,
  Reform’d our numbers till our songs grew chast.
  Farre more thou fam’d _Augustus_ ere could doe
  With’s wisdome, (though it long continued too)
  You have perform’d even in your Moon of age;
  Refin’d to Lectures, Playes, to Schooles a stage.
  Such vertue got[,] why is your Poet lesse
  A Priest then his who had a power to blesse?
  So hopefull is my rage that I begin
  To shew that feare which strives to keep it in:
  And what was meant a blessing soars so high
  That it is now become a Prophesie.
  Your selfe (our _Plannet_ which renewes our year)
  Shall so inlighten all, and every where,
  That through the Mists of error men shall spy
  In the dark North the way to Loyalty;
  Whilst with your intellectuall beames, you show
  The knowing what they are that seeme to know.
  You like our Sacred and indulgent Lord,
  When the too-stout Apostle drew his sword,
  When he mistooke some secrets of the cause,
  And in his furious zeale disdain’d the Lawes,
  Forgetting true Religion doth lye
  On prayers, not swords against authority.
  You like our substitute of horrid fate
  That are next him we most should imitate,
  Shall like to him rebuke with wiser breath,
  Such furious zeale, but not reveng’d with death.
  Like him the wound that’s giv’n you strait shall heal,
  Then calm by precept such mistaking zeal.

_In praise of a deformed woman._


  I love thee for thy curled haire,
    As red as any Fox,
  Our forefathers did still commend
    The lovely golden locks.
  _Venus her self might comelier be,_
    _Yet hath no such variety._


  I love thee for thy squinting eyes,
    It breeds no jealousie,
  For when thou do’st on others look,
    Methinks thou look’st on me,
        _Venus her self_, &c.


  I love thee for thy copper nose,
    Thy fortune’s ne’re the worse,
  It shews the mettal in thy face
    Thou should’st have in thy purse,
        _Venus her self_, &c.


  I love thee for thy Chessenut skin,
    Thy inside’s white to me,
  That colour should be most approv’d,
    That will least changed be.
        _Venus her self_, &c.


  I love thee for thy splay mouth,
    For on that amarous close
  There’s room on either side to kisse,
    And ne’re offend the nose.
        _Venus her self_, &c.


  I love thee for thy rotten gummes,
    In good time it may hap,
  When other wives are costly fed,
    Ile keep thy chaps on pap.
        _Venus her self_, &c.


  I love thee for thy blobber lips,
    Tis good thrift I suppose,
  They’re dripping-pans unto thy eyes,
    And save-alls to thy nose.
        _Venus her self_, &c.


  I love thee for thy huncht back,
    ’Tis bow’d although not broken,
  For I believe the Gods did send
    Me to Thee for a Token.
        _Venus her self_, &c.


  I love thee for thy pudding wast,
    If a Taylor thou do’st lack,
  Thou need’st not send to _France_ for one,
    Ile fit thee with a sack.
        _Venus her self_, &c.


  I love thee for thy lusty thighes
    For tressels thou maist boast,
  Sweet-heart thou hast a water-mill,
    And these are the mill-posts.
        _Venus her self_, &c.

  [11.] 10.

  I love thee for thy splay feet,
    They’re fooles that thee deride,
  Women are alwaies most esteem’d,
    When their feet are most wide.
        _Venus her self may comelier be_, &c.

_On a TINKER._

  He that a Tinker, a Tinker, a Tinker will be,
  Let him leave other Loves, and come follow me.
  Though he travells all the day,
  Yet he comes home still at night,
  And dallies, dallies with his Doxie,
  And dreames of delight.
  His pot and his tost in the morning he takes,
  And all the day long good musick he makes;
  He wanders up and down to Wakes & to Fairs,
  He casts his cap, and casts his cap at the Court and its cares;
  And when to the town the Tinker doth come,
  Oh, how the wanton wenches run,
  Some bring him basons, and some bring him bowles,
  All maids desire him to stop up their holes.
  _Prinkum Prankum_ is a fine dance, strong Ale is good in the winter,
  And he that thrumms a wench upon a brass pot,
  The child may prove a Tinker.
  With tink goes the hammer, the skellit and the scummer,
  Come bring me thy copper kettle,
  For the Tinker, the Tinker, the merry merry Tinker
  Oh, he’s the man of mettle.

_Upon his Mistris’s black Eye-browes._

  Hide, oh hide those lovely Browes,
  _Cupid_ takes them for his bowes,
  And from thence with winged dart
  He lies pelting at my heart,
  Nay, unheard-of wounds doth give,
  Wounded in the heart I live;
  From their colour I descry,
  Loves bowes are made of Ebony;
  Or their Sable seemes to say
  They mourn for those their glances slay;
  Or their blacknesse doth arise
  From the Sun-beams of your eyes,
  Where _Apollo_ seemes to sit,
  As he’s God of Day and Wit;
  Your piercing Rayes, so bright, and cleare,
  Shewes his beamy Chariots there.
  Then the black upon your brow,
  Sayest wisdomes sable hue, [? sagest]
  Tells to every obvious eye,
  There’s his other Deity.
  This too shewes him deeply wise,
  To dwell there he left the skies;
  So pure a black could _Phœbus_ burn,
  He himself would _Negro_ turn,
  And for such a dresse would slight
  His gorgeous attire of light;
  Eclipses he would count a blisse,
  Were there such a black as this:
  Were Night’s dusky mantle made
  Of so glorious a shade,
  The ruffling day she would out-vie
  In costly dresse, and gallantry:
  Were Hell’s darknesse such a black,
  For it the Saints would Heaven forsake;
  So pure a black, that white from hence
  Loses its name of innocence;
  And the most spotlesse Ivory is
  A very stain and blot to this:
  So pure a black, that hence I guesse,
  Black first became a holy dresse.
  The Gods foreseeing this, did make
  Their Priests array themselves in Black.

_To my Lady of ~Carnarvon~, January 1._

  Idol of our Sex! Envy of thine own!
  Whom not t’ have seen, is never to have known,
  What eyes are good for; to have seen, not lov’d,
  Is to be more, or lesse then man, unmov’d;
  Deigne to accept, what I i’ th’ name of all
  Thy Servants pay to this dayes Festival,
  Thanks for the old yeare, prayers for the new,
  So may thy many dayes to come seeme few,
  So may fresh springs in thy blew rivolets flow,
  To make thy roses, and thy lillies grow.
  So may all dressings still become thy face,
  As if they grew there, or stole thence their grace.
  So may thy bright eyes comfort with their rayes
  Th’ humble, and dazle those that boldly gaze:
  So may thy sprightly motion, beauties best part,
  Shew there is stock enough of life at heart.
  So may thy warm snow never grow more cold,
  So may they live to be, but not seem old.
  So may thy Lord pay all, yet rest thy debtor,
  And love no other, till he sees a better:
  So may the new year crown the old yeares joy,
  By giving us a Girle unto our Boy;
  I’ th’ one the Fathers wit, and in the other
  Let us admire the beauty of the Mother,
  That so we may their severall pictures see,
  Which now in one fair Medall joyned be:
  Till then grow thus together, and howe’re
  You grow old in your selves, grow stil young here;
  And let him, though he may resemble either,
  Seem to be both in one, and singly neither.
  Let Ladies wagers lay, whose chin is this,
  Whose forehead that, whose lip, whose eye, then kiss
  Away the difference, whilst he smiling lies,
  To see his own shape dance in both your eyes.
  Sweet Babe! my prayer shall end with thee,
  (Oh may it prove a Prophecy!)
  May all the channels in thy veynes
  Expresse the severall noble straines,
  From whence they flow; sweet _Sydney’s_ wit,
  But not the sad, sweet fate of it;
  The last great _Pembroke’s_ learning, sage
  _Burleigh’s_ both wisdome and his age;
  Thy Grandsires honest heart expresse
  The _Veres_ untainted noblenesse.
  To these (if any thing there lacks)
  Adde _Dormer_ too, and _Molenax_.
  Lastly, if for thee I can woo
  Gods, and thy Godfathers grace too,
  Together with thy Fathers Thrift:
  Be thou thy Mothers New-years gift.

_The Western Husband-man’s Complaint in the late Wars._

  Uds bodykins! Chill work no more:
  Dost think chill labour to be poor?
      No ich have more a do:
  If of the world this be the trade,
  That ich must break zo knaves be made,
      Ich will a blundering too. [plundering]

  Chill zel my cart and eke my plow,
  And get a zword if ich know how,
      For ich mean to be right:
  Chill learn to zwear, and drink, and roar,
  And (Gallant leek) chill keep a whore, [like]
      No matter who can vight.

  God bless us! What a world is here,
  It can ne’re last another year,
      Vor ich can’t be able to zoe:
  Dost think that ever chad the art,
  To plow the ground up with my cart,
      My beasts be all a go.

  But vurst a Warrant ich will get
  From Master Captaine, that a vet
      Chill make a shrewd a do:
  Vor then chave power in any place,
  To steal a Horse without disgrace,
      And beat the owner too.

  Ich had zix oxen tother day,
  And them the Roundheads vetcht away,
      A mischiefe be their speed:
  And chad zix horses left me whole,
  And them the Cabbaleroes stole:
      Chee voor men be agreed.

  Here ich doe labour, toyl and zweat,
  And dure the cold, with dry and heat,
      And what dost think ich get?
  Vaith just my labour vor my pains,
  The garrisons have all the gains,
      Vor thither all’s avet.

  There goes my corne and beanes, and pease,
  Ich doe not dare them to displease,
      They doe zo zwear and vapour:
  When to the Governour ich doe come,
  And pray him to discharge my zum,
      Chave nothing but a paper.

  U’ds nigs dost think that paper will
  Keep warme my back and belly fill?
      No, no, goe vange thy note:
  If that another year my vield
  No profit doe unto me yield,
      Ich may goe cut my throat.

  When any money chove in store,
  Then straight a warrant comes therefore,
      Or ich must blundred be:
  And when chave shuffled out one pay,
  Then comes another without delay,
      Was ever the leek azee? [like]

  If all this be not grief enow,
  They have a thing cald quarter too,
      O’ts a vengeance waster:
  A pox upon’t they call it vree, [“free quarters”]
  Cham zure they make us zlaves to be,
      And every rogue our master.

_The High-way man’s Song._

  I keep my Horse, I keep my Whore,
  I take no Rents, yet am not poore,
  I traverse all the land about,
  And yet was born to never a foot;
  With Partridge plump, and Woodcock fine,
  I do at mid-night often dine;
  And if my whore be not in case,
  My Hostess daughter has her place.
  The maids sit up, and watch their turnes,
  If I stay long the Tapster mourns;
  The Cook-maid has no mind to sin,
  Though tempted by the Chamberlin;
  But when I knock, O how they bustle;
  The hostler yawns, the geldings justle;
  If maid be sleep, oh how they curse her!
  And all this comes of, _Deliver your purse sir_.

_Against Fruition_, &c.

  There is not half so warme a fire
  In the Fruition, as Desire.
  When I have got the fruit of pain,
  Possession makes me poore again,
  Expected formes and shapes unknown,
  Whet and make sharp tentation;
  Sense is too niggardly for Bliss,
  And payes me dully with what is;
  But fancy’s liberall, and gives all
  That can within her vastnesse fall;
  Vaile therefore still, while I divine
  The Treasure of this hidden Mine,
  And make Imagination tell
  What wonders doth in Beauty dwell.

_Upon Mr. ~Fullers~ Booke, called ~Pisgah-sight~._

  Fuller of wish, than hope, methinks it is,
  For me to expect a fuller work than this,
  Fuller of matter, fuller of rich sense,
  Fuller of Art[,] fuller of Eloquence;
  Yet dare I not be bold, to intitle this
  The fullest work; the Author fuller is,
  Who, though he empty not himself, can fill
  Another fuller, yet continue still
  Fuller himself, and so the Reader be
  Alwayes in hope a fuller work to see.

_On a Sheepherd that died for Love._


  _Cloris_, now thou art fled away,
  _Aminta’s_ Sheep are gone astray,
  And all the joyes he took to see
  His pretty Lambs run after thee.
      _Shee’s gone, shee’s gone, and he alway,_
      _Sings nothing now but welladay._


  His Oaten pipe that in thy praise,
  Was wont to play such roundelayes,
  Is thrown away, and not a Swaine
  Dares pipe or sing within this Plaine.
      _’Tis death for any now to say_
      _One word to him, but welladay._


  The May-pole where thy little feet
  So roundly did in measure meet,
  Is broken down, and no content
  Came near _Amintas_ since you went.
      _All that ere I heard him say,_
      _Was ~Cloris~, ~Cloris~, welladay._


  Upon those banks you us’d to tread,
  He ever since hath laid his head,
  And whisper’d there such pining wo,
  That not one blade of grasse will grow.
      _Oh ~Cloris~, ~Cloris~, come away,_
      _And hear ~Aminta’s~ welladay._


  The embroyder’d scrip he us’d to weare
  Neglected hangs, so does his haire.
  His Crook is broke, Dog pining lyes,
  And he himself nought doth but cryes,
      _Oh ~Cloris~, ~Cloris~, come away,_
      _And hear_, &c.


  His gray coat, and his slops of green,
  When worn by him, were comely seen,
  His tar-box too is thrown away,
  There’s no delight neer him must stay,
      _But cries, oh ~Cloris~ come away,_
      _~Aminta’s~ dying, welladay_.

_The Shepheards lamentation for the losse of his Love._


  Down lay the Shepheards Swain,
      So sober and demure,
  Wishing for his wench again,
      So bonny and so pure.
    With his head on hillock low,
    And his armes on kembow;
  And all for the losse of her Hy nonny nonny no.


  His teares fell as thin,
      As water from a Still,
  His haire upon his chin,
      Grew like tyme upon a hill:
    His cherry cheeks were pale as snow,
    Testifying his mickle woe;
  And all was for the loss of her hy nonny nonny no.


  Sweet she was, as fond of love,
      As ever fettred Swaine;
  Never such a bonny one
      Shall I enjoy again.
    Set ten thousand on a row,
    Ile forbid that any show
  Ever the like of her, hy nonny nonny no.


  Fac’d she was of Filbard hew,
      And bosom’d like a Swanne:
  Back’t she was of bended yew,
      And wasted by a span.
    Haire she had as black as Crow,
    From the head unto the toe,
  Down down, all over, hy nonny nonny no.


  With her Mantle tuck’t up high,
      She foddered her Flocke,
  So buckesome and alluringly,
      Her knee upheld her smock;
    So nimbly did she use to goe,
    So smooth she danc’d on tip-toe,
  That all men were fond of her, hy nonny nonny no.


  She simpred like a Holy-day,
      And smiled like a Spring,
  She pratled like a Popinjay,
      And like a Swallow sing.
    She tript it like a barren Doe,
    And strutted like a Gar-crowe:
  Which made me so fond of her, hy, &c.


  To trip it on the merry Down,
      To dance the lively Hay,
  To wrastle for a green Gown,
      In heat of all the day,
    Never would she say me no.
    Yet me thought she had though
  Never enough of her, hy, &c.


  But gone she is[,] the blithest Lasse
      That ever trod on Plain.
  What ever hath betided her,
      Blame not the Shepheard Swain.
    For why, she was her own foe,
    And gave her selfe the overthrowe,
  By being too franke of her hy nonny nonny no.

_A Ballad on Queen ~Elizabeth~; to the tune of Sallengers round._

  I tell you all both great and small,
    And I tell you it truely,
  That we have a very great cause,
    Both to lament and crie,
  Oh fie, oh fie, oh fie, oh fie,
    Oh fie on cruell death;
  For he hath taken away from us
    Our Queen _Elizabeth_.

  He might have taken other folk,
    That better might have been mist,
  And let our gratious Queen alone,
    That lov’d not a Popish Priest.
  She rul’d this Land alone of her self,
    And was beholding to no man.
  She bare the waight of all affaires,
    And yet she was but a woman.

  A woman said I? nay that is more
    Nor any man can tell,
  So chaste she was, so pure she was,
    That no man knew it well.
  For whilst that she liv’d till cruel death
    Exposed her to all.
  Wherefore I say lament, lament,
    Lament both great and small.

  She never did any wicked thing,
    Might make her conscience prick her,
  And scorn’d for to submit her self to him
    That calls himself Christ’s Vicker:
  But rather chose couragiously
    To fight under Christ’s Banner,
  Gainst Turk and Pope, I and King of _Spain_,
    And all that durst withstand her.

  She was as Chaste and Beautifull,
    And Faire as ere was any;
  And had from forain Countreys sent
    Her Suters very many.
  Though _Mounsieur_ came himself from _France_,
    A purpose for to woe her,
  Yet still she liv’d and dy’d a Maid,
    Doe what they could unto her.

  And if that I had _Argus_ eyes,
    They were too few to weep,
  For our sweet Queen _Elizabeth_,
    Who now doth lye asleep:
  Asleep I say she now doth lye,
    Untill the day of Doome:
  But then shall awake unto the disgrace
    Of the proud Pope of _Rome_.

_A Ballad on King ~James~; to the tune of When ~Arthur~ first in Court

  When _James_ in _Scotland_ first began,
    And there was crowned King,
  He was not much more than a span,
    All in his clouts swadling.

  But when he waxed into yeares,
    And grew to be somewhat tall,
  And told his Lords, a Parliament
    He purposed to call.

  That’s over-much[,] quoth _Douglas_ though,
    For thee to doe[,] I feare,
  For I am Lord Protector yet,
    And will be one halfe yeare.

  It pleaseth me well, quoth the King,
    What thou hast said to me,
  But since thou standest on such tearmes,
    Ile prove as strict to thee.

  And well he rul’d and well he curb’d
    Both _Douglas_ and the rest;
  Till Heaven with better Fortune and Power,
    Had him to _England_ blest.

  Then into _England_ straight he came
    As fast as he was able,
  Where he made many a Carpet Knight,
    Though none of the Round Table.

  And when he entered _Barwicke_ Town,
    Where all in peace he found:
  But when that roaring Megge went off,
    His Grace was like to swound.

  Then up to _London_ straight he came,
    Where he made no long stay,
  But soon returned back again,
    To meet his Queen by th’ way.

  And when they met, such tilting was,
    The like was never seen;
  The Lords at each others did run,
    And neer a tilt between.

  Their Horses backs were under them,
    And that was no great wonder,
  The wonder was to see them run,
    And break no Staves in sunder.

  They ran full swift and coucht their Speares,
    O ho quoth the Ladies then,
  They run for shew, quoth the people though,
    And not to hurt the men.

  They smote full hard at Barriers too,
    You might have heard the sound,
  As far as any man can goe,
    When both his legges are bound.

_Upon the death of a ~Chandler~._

  The Chandler grew neer his end,
  Pale Death would not stand his friend;
  But tooke it in foul snuff,
  As having tarryed long enough:
  Yet left this not to be forgotten,
  Death and the Chandler could not Cotton.


  Farre in the Forrest of _Arden_,
  There dwelt a Knight hight _Cassimen_,
      As bold as _Isenbras_:
  Fell he was and eager bent
  In battaile and in Turnament,
      As was the good Sr. _Topas_.


  He had (as Antique stories tell)
  A daughter cleped _Dowsabell_,
      A Maiden faire and free,
  Who, cause she was her fathers heire,
  Full well she was y-tought the leire
      Of mickle courtesie.


  The Silke well could she twist and twine,
  And make the fine Marchpine,
      And with the needle work.
  And she could help the Priest to say
  His Mattins on a Holy-day,
      And sing a Psalme in Kirk.


  Her Frocke was of the frolique Green,
  (Mought well become a Mayden Queen)
      Which seemely was to see:
  Her Hood to it was neat and fine,
  In colour like the Columbine,
      y-wrought full featuously.


  This Maiden in a morne betime,
  Went forth when _May_ was in her prime,
      To get sweet Scettuall,
  The Honysuckle, the Horelock,
  The Lilly, and the Ladies-Smock,
      To dight her summer Hall.


  And as she romed here, and there,
  Y-picking of the bloomed brier,
    She chanced to espie
  A Shepheard sitting on a bank,
  Like Chanticleere—he crowed crank,
    And piped with merry glee.


  He leerd his Sheep as he him list,
  When he would whistle in his fist,
      To feed about him round,
  Whilst he full many a Caroll sung,
  That all the fields, and meadowes rung,
      And made the woods resound.


  In favour this same Shepheard Swaine
  Was like the Bedlam Tamerlaine,
      That kept proud Kings in awe.
  But meek he was as meek mought be,
  Yea like the gentle _Abell_, he
      Whom his lewd brother slew.


  This Shepheard ware a freeze-gray Cloake,
  The which was of the finest locke,
      That could be cut with Sheere:
  His Aule and Lingell in a Thong,
  His Tar-box by a broad belt hung,
      His Cap of Minivere.


  His Mittens were of Bausons skin,
  His Cockers were of Cordowin,
      His Breech of country blew:
  All curle, and crisped were his Locks,
  His brow more white then _Albion_ Rocks:
      So like a Lover true.


  And piping he did spend the day,
  As merry as a Popinjay,
      Which lik’d faire _Dowsabell_,
  That wod she ought, or wod she nought,
  The Shepheard would not from her thought,
      In love she longing fell:


  With that she tucked up her Frock,
  (White as the Lilly was her Smock,)
      And drew the Shepheard nigh,
  But then the Shepheard pip’d a good,
  That all his Sheep forsook their food,
      To heare his melody.


  Thy Sheep (quoth she) cannot be lean,
  That have so faire a Shepheard Swain,
      That can his Pipe so well:
  I but (quoth he) the Shepheard may,
  If Piping thus he pine away,
      For love of _Dowsabell_.


  Of love (fond boy) take thou no keep,
  Look well (quoth she) unto thy Sheep;
      Lest they should chance to stray.
  So had I done (quoth he) full well,
  Had I not seen faire _Dowsabell_,
      Come forth to gather May.


  I cannot stay (quoth she) till night,
  And leave my Summer Hall undight,
      And all for love of men.
  Yet are you, quoth he, too unkind,
  If in your heart you cannot find,
      To love us now and then.


  And I will be to thee as kind,
  As _Collin_ was to _Rosalinde_,
      Of courtesie the flower.
  And I will be as true (quoth she)
  As ever Lover yet mought be,
      Unto her Paramour.


  With that the Maiden bent her knee,
  Down by the Shepheard kneeled she,
      And sweetly she him kist.
  But then the Shepheard whoop’d for joy,
  (Quoth he) was never Shepheards boy,
      That ever was so blist.

_Upon the ~Scots~ being beaten at ~Muscleborough~ field._

  On the twelfth day of _December_,
    In the fourth year of King _Edwards_ reign[,]
  Two mighty Hosts (as I remember)
    At _Muscleborough_ did pitch on a Plain.
  For a down, down, derry derry down, Hey down a,
  Down, down, down a down derry.

  All night our English men they lodged there,
    So did the Scots both stout and stubborn,
  But well-away was all their cheere,
    For we have served them in their own turn.
              For a downe, &c.

  All night they carded for our _English_ mens Coats,
    (They fished before their Nets were spun)
  A white for Six-pence, a red for two Groats;
    Wisdome would have stayd till they had been won.
              For a down, &c.

  On the twelfth day all in the morn,
    They made a fere as if they would fight;
  But many a proud _Scot_ that day was down born,
    And many a rank Coward was put to his flight.
              For a down, &c.

  And the Lord _Huntley_, we hadden him there,
    With him he brought ten thousand men:
  But God be thanked, we gave him such a Banquet,
    He carryed but few of them home agen.
              For a down, &c.

  For when he heard our great Guns crack,
    Then did his heart fall untill his hose,
  He threw down his Weapons, he turned his back,
    He ran so fast that he fell on his nose.
              For a down, &c.

  We beat them back till _Edenbrough_,
    (There’s men alive can witnesse this)
  But when we lookt our English men through,
    Two hundred good fellowes we did not misse.
              For a down, &c.

  Now God preserve _Edward_ our King,
    With his two Nuncles and Nobles all,
  And send us Heaven at our ending:
    For we have given _Scots_ a lusty fall.
  For a down, down, derry derry down, Hey,
  Down a down down, down a down derry.

_Lipps and Eyes._

  In _Celia_ a question did arise,
  Which were more beautifull her Lippes or Eyes.
  We, said the Eyes, send forth those pointed darts,
  Which pierce the hardest Adamantine hearts.
  From us, (reply’d the Lipps) proceed the blisses
  Which Lovers reape by kind words and sweet kisses.
  Then wept the Eyes, and from their Springs did powre
  Of liquid Orientall Pearle a showre:
  Whereat the Lippes mov’d with delight and pleasure,
  Through a sweet smile unlockt their pearly Treasure:
  And bad Love judge, whether did adde more grace,
  Weeping or smiling Pearles in _Celia’s_ face.

_On black Eyes._

  Black Eyes; in your dark Orbs do lye,
  My ill or happy destiny,
  If with cleer looks you me behold,
  You give me Mines and Mounts of Gold;
  If you dart forth disdainfull rayes,
  To your own dy, you turn my dayes.
      Black Eyes, in your dark Orbes by changes dwell.
      My bane or blisse, my Paradise or Hell.

  That Lamp which all the Starres doth blind,
  Yeelds to your lustre in some kind,
  Though you do weare, to make you bright,
  No other dresse but that of night:
  He glitters only in the day.
  You in the dark your Beames display.
                Black Eyes, &c.

  The cunning Theif that lurkes for prize,
  At some dark corner watching lyes;
  So that heart-robbing God doth stand
  In the dark Lobbies, shaft in hand,
  To rifle me of what I hold
  More pretious farre then _Indian_ Gold.
                Black Eyes, &c.

  Oh powerful Negromantick Eyes,
  Who in your circles strictly pries,
  Will find that _Cupid_ with his dart,
  In you doth practice the blacke Art:
  And by th’ Inchantment I’me possest,
  Tryes his conclusion in my brest.
                Black Eyes, &c.

  Look on me though in frowning wise,
  Some kind of frowns become black eyes,
  As pointed Diamonds being set,
  Cast greater lustre out of Jet.
  Those pieces we esteem most rare,
  Which in night shadowes postur’d are.
  Darknesse in Churches congregates the sight,
  Devotion strayes in glaring light.
      Black Eyes, in your dark Orbs by changes dwell,
      My bane, or blisse, my Paradise or Hell.


  We read of Kings, and Gods that kindly took
  A Pitcher fill’d with Water from the Brook.
  But I have dayly tendred without thanks,
  Rivers of tears that overflow their banks.
  A slaughtred Bull will appease angry Jove,
  A Horse the Sun, a Lamb the God of Love.
  But she disdains the spotlesse sacrifice
  Of a pure heart that at her Altar lyes:
  Vesta [i]’s not displeas’d if her chaste Urn
  Doe with repaired fuell ever burn;
  But my Saint frowns, though to her honoured name
  I consecrate a never dying flame:
  Th’ _Assyrian_ King did none i th’ furnace throw,
  But those that to his Image did not bow:
  With bended knees I dayly worship her,
  Yet she consumes her own Idolater.
  Of such a Goddesse no times leave record,
  That burnt the Temple where she was ador’d.

_A Sonnet._

  What ill luck had I, silly Maid that I am,
    To be ty’d to a lasting vow;
  Or ere to be laid by the side of a man,
    That woo’d, and cannot tell how;
  Down didle down, down didle me.
  Oh that I had a Clown that he might down diddle me,
  With a courage to take mine down.

  What punishment is that man worthy to have,
    That thus will presume to wedde,
  He deserves to be layd alive in his grave,
    That woo’d and cannot in bed;
  Down didle down[,] down didle me.
  Oh that I had a Lad that he might down didle me,
    For I feare I shall run mad.

_The ~Doctors~ Touchstone._

  I never did hold, all that glisters is Gold,
    Unless by the Touch it be try’d;
  Nor ever could find, that it was a true signe,
    To judge a man by the outside.
  A poor flash of wit, for a time may be fit
    To wrangle a question in Schools.
  Good dressing, fine cloathes, with other fine shews,
    May serve to make painted fools.

  That man will beguile, in your face that will smile,
    And court you with Cap and with knee:
  And while you’re in health, or swimming in wealth,
    Will vow that your Servant hee’l be.
  That man Ile commend, and would have to my friend
    If I could tell where to choose him,
  That wil help me at need, and stand me in stead,
    When I have occasion to use him.

  I doe not him fear, that wil swagger & sweare,
    And draw upon every cross word,
  And forthwith again if you be rough & plain,
    Be contented to put up his sword.
  Him valiant I deem, that patient can seem,
    And fights not in every place,
  But on good occasion, without seeking evasion[,]
    Durst look his proud Foe in the face.

  That Physician shal pass that is all for his glass
    And no other sign can scan,
  Who to practice did hop, from ‘Apothecaries’ shop,
    Or some old Physitians man.
  He Physick shal give to me whilst I live,
    That hath more strings to his Bow,
  Experience and learning, with due deserving,
    And will talk on no more then he know.

  That Lawyer I hate, that wil wrangle & prate,
    In a matter not worth the hearing:
  And if fees do not come, can be silent & dumb,
    Though the cause deserves but the clearing.
  That Lawyers for me, that’s not all for his fee,
    But will do his utmost endeavour
  To stand for the right, and tug against might,
    And lift the truth as with a Leaver.

  The Shark I do scorn, that’s only well born,
    And brags of his antient house,
  Yet his birth cannot fit, with money nor wit,
    But feeds on his friends like a Louse,
  That man I more prize, that by vertue doth rise
    Unto some worthy degree,
  That by breeding hath got, what by birth he had not,
    A carriage that’s noble and free.

  I care not for him, that in riches doth swimme,
    And flants it in every fashion,
  That brags of his Grounds and prates of his Hounds,
    And his businesse is all recreation.
  For him I will stand, that hath wit with his Land,
    And will sweat for his Countreys good,
  That will stick to the Lawes, and in a good cause
    Will adventure to spend his heart-blood.

  That man I despise, that thinks himself wise,
    Because he can talk at Table,
  And at a rich feast break forth a poor jest,
    To the laughter of others more able.
  No, he hath more wit, that silent can sit,
    Yet knowes well enough how to do it,
  That speaks with reason, & laughs in due seaso[n,]
    And when he is mov’d unto it.

  I care not a fly, for a house that’s built high,
    And yeelds not a cup of good beer,
  Where scraps you may find, while Venison’s in kind
    For a week or two in a yeare.
  He a better house keeps, that every night sleeps
    Under a Covert of thatch,
  Where’s good Beef from the Stall, and a fire in the Hall,
    Where you need not to scramble nor snatch.

  Then lend me your Touch, for dissembling there’s much,
    Ile try them before I do trust.
  For a base needy Slave, in shew may be brave,
    And a sliding Companion seem just.
  The man that’s down right, in heart & in sight,
    Whose life and whose looks doth agree,
  That speaks what he thinks, and sleeps when he winks,
    O that’s the companion for me.

_A copy of Verses of a mon[e]y Marriage._


  No Gypsie nor no Blackamore,
  No Bloomesbery, nor Turnbald whore,
  Can halfe so black, so foule appeare,
  As she I chose to be my Deare.
  She’s wrinkled, old, she’s dry, she’s tough,
  Yet money makes her faire enough.


  Nature’s hand shaking did dispose,
  Her cheeks faire red unto her nose,
  Which shined like that wanton light,
  Misguideth wanderers in the night.
  Yet for all this I do not care,
  Though she be foul, her money’s faire.


  Her tangled Locks do show to sight,
  Like Horses manes, whom haggs affright.
  Her Bosome through her vaile of Lawne,
  Shews more like Pork, her Neck like Brawn.
        Yet for all this I do not care,
        Though she be foul, her money’s faire.


  Her teeth, to boast the Barbers fame,
  Hang all up in his wooden frame.
  Her lips are hairy, like the skin
  Upon her browes, as lank as thin.
        Yet for all this I do not care,
        Though she be foul, her money’s faire.


  Those that her company do keep,
  Are rough hoarse coughs, to break my sleep.
  The Palsie, Gout, and Plurisie,
  And Issue in her legge and thigh.
        Yet me it grieves not, who am sure
        That Gold can all diseases cure.


  Then young men do not jeere my lot,
  That beauty left, and money got:
  For I have all things having Gold,
  And beauty too, since beautie’s sold.
        For Gold by day shall please my sight,
        When all her faults lye hid at night.

_The baseness of Whores._

  Trust no more, a wanton Whore,
    If thou lov’st health and freedom,
  They are so base in every place,
    It’s pity that bread should feed ’um.
  All their sence is impudence,
    Which some call good conditions.
  Stink they do, above ground too,
    Of Chirurgions and Physitians.

  If you are nice, they have their spice,
    On which they’le chew to flout you,
  And if you not discern the plot,
    You have no Nose about you.
  Furthermore, they have in store,
    For which I deadly hate ’um,
  Perfum’d geare, to stuffe each eare,
    And for their cheeks Pomatum.

  Liquorish Sluts, they feast their guts,
    At Chuffs cost, like Princes,
  Amber Plumes, and Mackarumes,
    And costly candy’d Quinces.
  Potato plump, supports the Rump,
    Eringo strengthens Nature.
  Viper Wine, so heats the chine,
    They’le gender with a Satyr.

  Names they own were never known
    Throughout their generation,
  Noblemen are kind to them,
    At least by approbation:
  Many dote on one gay Coat,
    But mark what there is stampt on ’t,
  A stone Horse wild, with toole defil’d,
    Two Goats, a Lyon rampant.

  Truth to say, Paint and Array,
    Makes them so highly prized.
  Yet not one well, of ten can tell,
    If ever they were baptized.
  And if not, then tis a blot
    Past cure of Spunge or Laver:
  And we may sans question say
    The Divel was their God-father.

  Now to leave them, he receive them,
    Whom they most confide in,
  Whom that is, aske _Tib_ or _Sis_,
    Or any whom next you ride in.
  If in sooth, she speaks the truth,
    She sayes excuse I pray you,
  The beast you ride, where I confide,
    Will in due time convey you.

_A Lover disclosing his love to his ~Mistris~._

  Let not sweet _St._ let not these eyes offend you,
  Nor yet the message, that these lines impart,
  The message my unfeined love doth send you,
  Love that your self hath planted in my heart.

  For being charm’d by the bewitching art
  Of those inveigling graces that attend you:
  Love’s holy fire kindled hath in part
  These never-dying flames, my breast doth send you.

  Now if my lines offend, let love be blam’d,
  And if my love displease, accuse my eyes,
  And if mine eyes sin, their sins cause only lyes
  On your bright eyes, that hath my heart inflam’d.

  Since eyes[,] love, lines erre, then by your direction,
  Excuse my eyes, my lines, and my affection.

_The contented Prisoner his praise of ~Sack~._

  How happy’s that Prisoner
    That conquers his fates,
  With silence, and ne’re
    On bad fortune complaines,
  But carelessely playes
    With his Keyes on the Grates,
  And makes a sweet consort
    With them and his chayns.
  He drowns care with Sack,
    When his thoughts are opprest,
  And makes his heart float,
    Like a Cork in his Breast.

  _The Chorus._

  Since we are all slaves,
    That Islanders be,
  And our Land’s a large prison,
    Inclos’d with the Sea:
    Wee’l drink up the Ocean,
  To set our selves free,
    For man is the World’s Epitome.

  Let Pirates weare Purple,
    Deep dy’d in the blood
  Of those they have slain,
    The scepter to sway.
  If our conscience be cleere,
    And our title be good,
  With the rags we have on us,
    We are richer then they.
  We drink down at night,
    What we beg or can borrow,
  And sleep without plotting
    For more the next morrow.

                      Since we, &c.

  Let the Usurer watch
    Ore his bags and his house,
  To keep that from Robbers,
    He hath rackt from his debtors,
  Each midnight cries Theeves,
    At the noyse of a mouse,
  Then see that his Trunks
    Be fast bound in their Fetters.
  When once he’s grown rich enough
    For a State plot,
  Buff in an hower plunders
    What threescore years got.

                            Since we, &c.

  Come Drawer fill each man
    A peck of Canary
  This Brimmer shall bid
    All our senses good-night.
  When old _Aristotle_
    Was frolick and merry,
  By the juice of the Grape,
    He turn’d Stagarite.
  _Copernicus_ once
    In a drunken fit found,
  By the coruse [course] of his brains,
    That the world turn’d round.

                            Since we, &c.

  Tis Sack makes our faces
    Like Comets to shine,
  And gives beauty beyond
    The Complexion mask,
  _Diogenes_ fell so
    In love with this Wine,
  That when ’twas all out,
    He dwelt in the Cask.
  He liv’d by the s[c]ent
    Of his Wainscoated Room;
  And dying desir’d
    The Tub for his Tombe.

                            Since we, &c.


        Fire, Fire!
  O how I burn in my desire.
  For all the teares that I can strain
  Out of my empty love-sick brain,
  Cannot asswage my scorching pain.
  Come Humber, Trent, and silver Thames,
  The dread Ocean haste with all thy streames,
  And if thou can’st not quench my fire,
  Then drown both me and my Desire.

        Fire, Fire!
  Oh there’s no hell to my desire.
  See how the Rivers backward lye,
  The Ocean doth his tide deny,
  For fear my flames should drink them drye.
  Come heav’nly showers, come pouring down,
  You all that once the world did drown.
  You then sav’d some, and now save all,
  Which else would burn, and with me fall.

_Upon kinde and true Love._

  ’Tis not how witty, nor how free,
  Nor yet how beautifull she be,
  But how much kinde and true to me.
  Freedome and Wit none can confine,
  And Beauty like the Sun doth shine,
  But kinde and true are onely mine.

  Let others with attention sit,
  To listen, and admire her wit,
  That is a rock where Ile not split.
  Let others dote upon her eyes,
  And burn their hearts for sacrifice,
  Beauty’s a calm where danger lyes.

  But Kinde and True have been long try’d,
  And harbour where we may confide, [? An]
  And safely there at anchor ride.
  From change of winds there we are free,
  And need not fear Storme’s tyrannie,
  Nor Pirat, though a Prince he be.

_Upon his Constant Mistresse._

  She’s not the fairest of her name,
    But yet she conquers more than all the race,
  For she hath other motives to inflame,
    Besides a lovely face.
  There’s Wit and Constancy
    And Charms, that strike the soule more than the Eye.
  ’Tis no easie lover knowes how to discover
    Such Divinity.

  And yet she is an easie book,
    Written in plain language for the meaner wit,
  A stately garb, and [yet] a gracious look,
    With all things justly fit.
  But age will undermine
  This glorious outside, that appeares so fine,
    When the common Lover
  Shrinks and gives her over,
  Then she’s onely mine.

  To the Platonick that applies
    His clear addresses onely to the mind;
  The body but a Temple signifies,
    Wherein the Saints inshrin’d,
  To him it is all one,
    Whether the walls be marble, or rough stone;
  Nay, in holy places, which old time defaces,
    More devotion’s shown.

_The Ghost-Song._

  ’Tis late and cold, stir up the fire,
  Sit close, and draw the table nigher,
  Be merry, and drink wine that’s old,
  A hearty medicine ’gainst the cold;
  Your bed[’s] of wanton down the best,
  Where you may tumble to your rest:
  I could well wish you wenches too,
  But I am dead, and cannot do.
  Call for the best, the house will ring,
  Sack, White and Claret, let them bring,
  And drink apace, whilst breath you have,
  You’l find but cold drinking in the grave;
  Partridge, Plover for your dinner,
  And a Capon for the sinner,
  You shall finde ready when you are up,
  And your horse shall have his sup.
  Welcome, welcome, shall flie round,
  And I shall smile, though under ground.

  _You that delight in Trulls and Minions,_
  _Come buy my four ropes of St. ~Omers~ Onions._


Table of First Lines

_To the Songs and Poems in_




  _A Maiden of the Pure Society_                                        44

  _A story strange I will you tell_                                     31

  _A Stranger coming to the town_                                       16

  _And will this wicked world never prove good?_                        40

  _As I went to ~Totnam~_                                               45

  _Blacke eyes, in your dark orbs do lye_                               81

  _~Cloris~, now thou art fled away_                                    63

  _Come, my White-head, let our Muses_                                  10

  _Deare Love, let me this evening dye_                                  1

  _Down lay the Shepheards Swain_                                       65

  _Drink boyes, drink boyes, drink and doe not spare_                   42

  _Farre in the Forrest of ~Arden~_                                     73

  _Fire! Fire! O, how I burn_                                           97

  _Fuller of wish, than hope, methinks it is_                           62

  _He that a Tinker, a Tinker, a Tinker will be_                        52

  _Hide, oh hide those lovely Browes_                                   53

  _How happy’s that Prisoner that conquers, &c._                        93

  _I keep my horse, I keep my W_                                        60

  _I love thee for thy curled hair_                                     49

  _I never did hold, all that glisters is gold_                         85

  _I tell you all, both great and small_                                68

  _Idol of our sex! Envy of thine own!_                                 55

  _If at this time I am derided_                                         9

  _In ~Celia~ a question did arise_                                     80

  _In Eighty-eight, ere I was born_                                     38

  _Let not, sweet saint, let not these eyes offend you_                 92

  _List, you Nobles, and attend_                                        20

  _My Mother hath sold away her Cock_                                   43

  _Never was humane soule so overgrown_                                 17

  _No Gypsie nor no Blackamore_                                         88

  _Nor Love, nor Fate dare I accuse_                                     4

  _Oh fire, fire, fire, where?_                                         33

  _On the twelfth day of December_                                      78

  _One night the great ~Apollo~, pleas’d with ~Ben~_                     5

  _Shall I think, because some clouds_                                  15

  _She’s not the fairest of her name_                                   99

  _The Chandler grew neer his end_                                      72

  _There is not halfe so warme a fire_                                  61

  _This day inlarges every narrow mind_                                 48

  _’Tis late and cold, stir up the fire_                               100

  _’Tis not how witty, nor how free_                                    98

  _Trust no more a wanton Wh—_                                          90

  _Uds bodykins, Chill work no more_                                    57

  _We read of Kings, and Gods that kindly took_                         83

  _What ill luck had I, silly maid that I am_                           84

  _When first the magick of thine eye_                                   8

  _When ~James~ in Scotland first began_                                70


                            Made up in PILLS.

                 Compounded of _Witty Ballads_, _Jovial
                      Songs_, and _Merry Catches_.

  _These witty Poems though some time [they] may seem to halt on crutches,_
  _Yet they’l all merrily please you for your Charge, which not much is._

         Printed by _Mer. Melancholicus_, to be sold in _London_
                        and _Westminster_, 1661.

                              [Aprill, 18.]


  _Adalmar._—“An Antidote!
          Restore him whom thy poisons have laid low.” ...

  _Isbrand._—“A very good and thirsty melody;
          What say you to it, my Court Poet?”

  _Wolfram._—“Good melody! When I am sick o’ mornings,
          With a horn-spoon tinkling my porridge pot,
          ’Tis a brave ballad.”

                (_T. L. Beddoes: Death’s Jest Book, Acts_ iv. & v.)


Having found that sixty-five of our previous pages, in the second
volume of the _Drolleries Reprint_, were filled with songs and poems
that also appear in the _Antidote against Melancholy_, 1661; and that
all the remaining songs and poems of the _Antidote_ (several being only
obtainable therein) exceed not the compass of three additional sheets,
or forty-eight pages, the Editor determined to include this valuable
book. Thus in our three volumes are given four entire works, to exemplify
this particular class of literature, the Cavalier Drolleries of the

To that portion of our present Appendix which is devoted to _Notes to
the Antidote against Melancholy_, 1661, we refer the reader for the
admirable brief Introduction written by John Payne Collier, Esq.; to
whose handsome Reprint of the work we owe our first acquaintance with its
pages. His knowledge of our old literature extends over nearly a century;
his opportunities for inspecting private and public libraries have been
peculiarly great; and he has always been most generous in communicating
his knowledge to other students, showing throughout a freedom from
jealousy and exclusiveness reminding us of the genial Sir Walter
Scott. He states:—“We have never seen a copy of an ‘_Antidote against
Melancholy_’ that was not either imperfect, or in some places illegible
from dirt and rough usage, excepting the one we have employed: our
single exemplar is as fresh as on the day it was issued from the press.
There is an excellent and highly finished engraving on the title-page,
of gentlemen and boors carousing; but as the repetition of it for our
purpose would cost more than double every other expense attending our
reprint, we have necessarily omitted it. The same plate was afterwards
used for one of Brathwayte’s pieces; and we have seen a much worn
impression of it on a Drollery near the end of the seventeenth century.
It does not at all add to our knowledge of the subject of our reprint. J.
P. C.”

Nevertheless, the copper-plate illustration is so good, and connects
so well with the Bacchanalian and sportive character of the “_Antidote
against Melancholy_,” and other _Drolleries_, that the present Editor not
unwillingly takes up the graver to reproduce this frontispiece for the
adornment of the volume and the service of subscribers. Our own Reprint
and our engraving are made from the _perfect_ specimen contained in the
Thomason Collection, and dated 1661 (with “Aprill 18” in MS.; see p.
161). We make a rule always to go to the fountain-head for our draughts,
howsoever long and steep may be the ascent. Flowers and rare fossils
reward us as we clamber up, and in good time other students learn to
trust us, as being pains-taking and conscientiously exact. The first duty
of one who aspires to be honoured as the Editor of early literature is to
faithfully reproduce his text, unmutilated and undisguised. To amend it,
and elucidate it, so far as lies in his power, can be done befittingly
in his notes and comments, while he gives his readers a representation of
the original, so nearly in _fac-simile_ as is compatible with additional
beauty of typography. Throughout our labours we have held this principle
steadily in view; and, whatever nobler work we may hereafter attempt, the
same determination must guide us. There may be debate as to our wisdom
in reproducing some questionable _facetiæ_, but there shall be none
regarding our fidelity to the original text.


A pleasant book it appeared to Cavaliers and all who were not quite
strait-laced. It is almost unobjectionable, except for a few ugly words,
and bears comparison honourably with “_Merry Drollery_” or “_Wit and
Drollery_,” both of the same date, 1661. Unlike the former, it is almost
uninfected with political rancour or impurity. It is a jovial book,
that roysters and revellers loved to sing their Catches from; nay, if
some laughing nymphs did not drop their eyes over its pages we are no
conjurors. A vulgar phrase or two did not frighten them. Lucy Hutchinson
herself, the Colonel’s Puritan wife, fires many a volley of coarse
epithets without blushing; and, indeed, the Saintly Crew occasionally
indulged in foul language as freely as the Malignants, though it was
condoned as being theologic zeal and controversial phraseology.

In “The Ex-Ale-tation of Ale” we forgive the verbosity, for the sake of
one verse on the noted Ballad-writer (see note in Appendix):—

  “For _ballads_ ELDERTON never had peer;
    How went his wit in them, with how merry a gale,
  And with all the sails up, had he been at the Cup,
    And washed his beard with a _pot of good ale_.”

We find the character of the songs to be eminently festive: almost every
one could be chanted over a cup of burnt Sack, and there was not entire
forgetfulness of eating: witness “The Cold Chyne,” on page 55 (our p.
148). The Love-making is seldom visible. Such glimpses as we gain of
Puritans (Bishop Corbet’s Hot-headed Zealot, Cleveland’s “Rotundos rot,”)
are only suggestive of playful ridicule. The Sectaries, being no longer
dangerous, are here laughed at, not calumniated. The odd jumble of
nations brought together in those disturbed times is seen in the crowd of
lovers around the “blith Lass of Falkland town” (p. 133) who is constant
in her love of a Scottish blue bonnet:—“_If ever I have a man, blew-Cap
for me!_” But, sitting at ease once more, not hunted into bye-ways or
exile, and with enough of ready cash to wipe off tavern scores, or pay
for braver garments than were lately flapping in the wind, the Cavaliers
recall the exploits of their patron-saint, “St. George for England,”
the gay wedding of Lord Broghill, as described by Sir John Suckling in
1641, the still noisier marriage of Arthur o’ Bradley, or that imaginary
banquet afforded to the Devil, by Ben Jonson’s Cook Lorrell, in the Peak
of Derbyshire. Early contrasts, drawn by their own grandsires, between
the Old Courtier of Queen Elizabeth and the New Courtier of King James,
are welcomed to remembrance. They forgive “Old Noll,” while ridiculing
his image as “The Brewer,” and they repeat the earlier Ulysses song of
the “Blacksmith,” by Dr. James Smith, if only for its chorus, “Which no
body can deny.” The grave solemnity wherewith Dr. Wilde’s “Combat of
Cocks” was told; the light-hearted buffoonery of “Sir Eglamore’s Fight
with the Dragon;” the spluttering grimaces of Ben Jonson’s “Welchman’s
praise of Wales;” and the sustained humour as well as enthusiasm of Dr.
Henry Edwards’s “On the Vertue of Sack” (“Fetch me Ben Jonson’s scull,”
&c.), are all crowned by the musical outburst of “The Green Gown:”—

  “Pan leave piping, the Gods have done feasting,
  There’s never a goddess a hunting to-day,” &c.

(see Appendix to _Westminster Drollery_, p. liv.) Our readers may thus
additionally enjoy a full-flavoured bumper of the “_Antidote against

                                                                 J. W. E.

August, 1875.

_To the Reader._

  There’s no Purge ’gainst _Melancholly_,
  But with _Bacchus_ to be jolly:
  All else are but Dreggs of Folly.

  _Paracelsus_ wanted skill
  When he sought to cure that Ill:
  No _Pectorals_ like the _Poets_ quill.

  Here are _Pills_ of every sort,
  For the _Country_, _City_, _Court_,
  Compounded and made up of sport.

  If ’gainst _Sleep_ and _Fumes_ impure,
  Thou, thy _Senses_ would’st secure;
  Take this, Coffee’s not half so sure.

  Want’st thou _Stomack_ to thy Meat,
  And would’st fain restore the heat,
  This does it more than _Choccolet_.

  Cures the _Spleen_[,] Revives the _blood_[,]
  Puts thee in a _Merry_ Mood:
  Who can deny such _Physick_ good?

  Nothing like to Harmeles _Mirth_,
  ’Tis a Cordiall On earth
  That gives _Society_ a Birth.

  Then be wise, and buy, not borrow,
  Keep an _Ounce_ still for to Morrow,
  Better than a _pound_ of _Sorrow_.

                               N. D.

_Ballads, Songs, and Catches in this Book._

                                                     Original:    Our
                                                       page.   vols, page

   1. The Exaltation of a _Pot of Good Ale_,               1    iii. 113

   2. The Song of _Cook-Lawrel_, by Ben Johnson            9     ii. 214

   3. The Ballad of _The Black-smith_,                    11         225

   4. The Ballad of _Old Courtier and the New_            14    iii. 125

   5. The Ballad of the Wedding of _Arthur of Bradley_,   16     ii. 312

   6. The Ballad of the _Green Gown_,                     20   i. Ap. 54

   7. The Ballad of the _Gelding of the Devil_,           21     ii. 200

   8. The Ballad of _Sir Eglamore_,                       25         257

   9. The Ballad of _St. George for England_,             26    iii. 129

  10. The Ballad of _Blew Cap for me_,                    29         133

  11. The Ballad of the _Several Caps_,                   31         135

  12. The Ballad of the _Noses_,                          33     ii. 143

  13. The Song of the _Hot-headed Zealot_,                35         234

  14. The Song of the _Schismatick Rotundos_,             37    iii. 139

  15. A Glee in praise of _Wine_ [_Let souldiers_],       39     ii. 218

  16. Sir John Sucklin’s Ballad of the _Ld. L. Wedding_.  40         101

  17. The _Combat of Cocks_,                              44         242

  18. The _Welchman’s prayse of Wales_,                   47    iii. 141

  19. The _Cavaleer’s Complaint_ [and _Answer_],          49     ii.  52

  20. Three several Songs in praise of _Sack_
          [: _Old Poets Hipocrin_, &c.                    52    iii. 143
             _Hang the Presbyter’s Gill_,                 53         144
             _’Tis Wine that inspires_,                   54         145
     [A Glee to the Vicar,                                      W.D. Int.
     [On a Cold Chyne of Beef,                            55    iii. 146
     [A Song of _Cupid_ Scorned,                          56         147

  21. On the _Vertue of Sack_, by Dr. Hen. Edwards        57     ii. 293

  22. The _Medly of Nations_, to several tunes,           59         127

  23. The Ballad of the Brewer,                           62         221

  24. A Collection of 40 [34] more Merry
          Catches and Songs.                           65-76    iii. 149
     [Of these 34, ten are given in Merry
      Drollery, Complete, on pages 296, 304,
      308, 232, 337, 300, 280, 318, 348, and 341.
      The others are added in this volume                       iii.  52

Pills to Purge Melancholly.

[p. 1.]

_The Ex-Ale-tation of ALE._

  Not drunken, nor sober, but neighbour to both,
    I met with a friend in _Ales-bury_ Vale;
  He saw by my Face, that I was in the Case
    To speak no great harm of a _Pot of good Ale_.

  Then did he me greet, and said, since we meet
    (And he put me in mind of the name of the Dale)
  For _Ales-burys_ sake some pains I would take,
  And not _bury_ the praise of a _Pot of good Ale_.

  The more to procure me, then he did adjure me
    If the _Ale_ I drank last were nappy and stale,
  To do it its right, and stir up my sprite,
    And fall to commend a _pot_ [_of good ale_]. [_passim._]

  Quoth I, To commend it I dare not begin,
    Lest therein my Credit might happen to fail;
  For, many men now do count it a sin,
    But once to look toward a _pot of good ale_.

  Yet I care not a pin, For I see no such sin,
    Nor any thing else my courage to quail:
  For, this we do find, that take it in kind,
  Much vertue there is in a _pot of good ale_.

  And I mean not to taste, though thereby much grac’t,
    Nor the _Merry-go-down_ without pull or hale,
  Perfuming the throat, when the stomack’s afloat,
    With the Fragrant sweet scent of a _pot of good ale_.

  Nor yet the delight that comes to the _Sight_
    To see how it flowers and mantles in graile,
  As green as a _Leeke_, with a smile in the cheek,
    The true Orient colour of a _pot of good ale_.

  But I mean the _Mind_, and the good it doth find,
    Not onely the _Body_ so feeble and fraile;
  For, _Body_ and _Soul_ may blesse the _black bowle_,
    Since both are beholden to a _Pot of good ale_.

  For, when _heavinesse_ the mind doth oppresse,
    And _sorrow_ and _grief_ the heart do assaile,
  No remedy quicker than to take off your Liquor,
    And to wash away _cares_ with a _pot of good ale_.

  The _Widow_ that buried her Husband of late,
    Will soon have forgotten to weep and to waile,
  And think every day twain, till she marry again,
    If she read the contents of a _pot of good ale_.

  It is like a _belly-blast_ to a _cold heart_,
    And warms and engenders the _spirits vitale_:
  To keep them from domage all sp’rits owe their homage
    To the _Sp’rite of the buttery_, a _pot of good ale_.

  And down to the _legs_ the vertue doth go,
    And to a bad _Foot-man_ is as good as a _saile_:
  When it fill the Veins, and makes light the Brains,
    No _Lackey_ so nimble as a _pot of good ale_.

  The naked complains not for want of a coat,
    Nor on the cold weather will once turn his taile;
  All the way as he goes, he cuts the wind with his Nose,
    If he be but well wrapt in a _pot of good ale_.

  The hungry man takes no thought for his meat,
    Though his stomack would brook a _ten-penny_ naile;
  He quite forgets hunger, thinks on it no longer,
    If he touch but the sparks of a _pot of good ale_.

  The _Poor man_ will praise it, so hath he good cause,
    That all the year eats neither _Partridge_ nor _Quaile_,
  But sets up his rest, and makes up his Feast,
    With a crust of _brown bread_, and a _pot of good ale_.

  The _Shepherd_, the _Sower_, the _Thresher_, the _Mower_,
    The one with his _Scythe_, the other with his _Flaile_,
  Take them out by the poll, on the peril of my soll,
    All will hold up their hands to a _pot of good ale_.

  The _Black-Smith_, whose bellows all Summer do blow,
    With the fire in his Face still, without e’re a vaile,
  Though his throat be full dry, he will tell you no lye,
    But where you may be sure of a _pot of good ale_.

  Who ever denies it, the Pris’ners will prayse it,
    That beg at [the] Grate, and lye in the _Goale_,
  For, even in their _fetters_ they thinke themselves better,
    May they get but a two-penny black _pot of Ale_.

  The begger, whose portion is alwayes his prayers,
    Not having a tatter to hang on his taile,
  Is rich in his rags, as the churle in his bags,
    If he once but shakes hands with a _pot of good ale_.

  It drives his poverty clean out of mind,
    Forgetting his _brown bread_, his _wallet_, and _maile_;
  He walks in the house like a _six footed Louse_,
    If he once be inricht with a _pot of good ale_.

  And he that doth _dig_ in the _ditches_ all day,
    And wearies himself quite at the _plough-taile_,
  Will speak no less things than of _Queens_ and of _Kings_,
    If he touch but the top of a _pot of good ale_.

  ’Tis like a Whetstone to a _blunt wit_,
    And makes a supply where Nature doth fail:
  The dullest wit soon will look quite through the Moon,
    If his temples be wet with a _pot of good ale_.

  Then DICK to his _Dearling_, full boldly dares speak,
    Though before (silly Fellow) his courage did quaile,
  He gives her the _smouch_, with his hand on his pouch,
    If he meet by the way with a _pot of good ale_.

  And it makes the _Carter_ a _Courtier_ straight-way;
    With Rhetorical termes he will tell his tale;
  With _courtesies_ great store, and his Cap up before,
    Being school’d but a little with a _pot of good ale_.

  The _Old man_, whose tongue wags faster than his teeth,
    (For old age by Nature doth drivel and drale)
  Will frig and will fling, like a Dog in a string,
    If he warm his cold blood with a _pot of good ale_.

  And the good _Old Clarke_, whose sight waxeth dark,
    And ever he thinks the Print is to[o] small,
  He will see every Letter, and say Service better,
    If he glaze but his eyes with a _pot of good ale_.

  The _cheekes_ and the _jawes_ to commend it have cause;
    For where they were late but even wan and pale,
  They will get them a colour, no _crimson_ is fuller,
    By the true die and tincture of a _pot of good ale_.

  Mark her Enemies, though they think themselves wise,
    How _meager_ they look, with how low a waile,
  How their cheeks do fall, without sp’rits at all,
    That alien their minds from a _pot of good ale_.

  And now that the grains do work in my brains,
    Me thinks I were able to give by retaile
  Commodities store, a dozen and more,
    That flow to Mankind from a _pot of good ale_.

  The MUSES would muse any should it misuse:
    For it makes them to sing like a _Nightingale_,
  With a lofty trim note, having washed their throat
    With the _Caballine_ Spring of a _pot of good ale_. [? Castalian]

  And the _Musician_ of any condition,
    It will make him reach to the top of his _Scale_:
  It will clear his pipes, and moisten his lights,
    If he drink _alternatim_ a _pot of good ale_.

  The _Poet_ Divine, that cannot reach Wine,
    Because that his money doth many times faile,
  Will hit on the vein to make a good strain,
    If he be but _inspir’d_ with a _pot of good ale_.

  For _ballads_ ELDERTON never had Peer;
    How went his wit in them, with how merry a Gale,
  And with all the Sails up, had he been at the Cup,
    And washed his beard with a _pot of good ale_.

  And the power of it showes, no whit less in _Prose_,
    It will file one’s Phrase, and set forth his Tale:
  Fill him but a Bowle, it will make his Tongue troul,
    For _flowing speech_ flows from a _pot of good ale_.

  And _Master Philosopher_, if he drink his part,
    Will not trifle his time in the _huske_ or the _shale_,
  But go to the _kernell_ by the depth of his Art,
    To be found in the bottom of a _pot of good ale_.

  Give a _Scholar_ of OXFORD a pot of _Sixteen_,
    And put him to prove that an _Ape_ hath no _taile_,
  And sixteen times better his wit will be seen,
    If you fetch him from _Botley_ a _pot of good ale_.

  Thus it helps _Speech_ and _Wit_: and it hurts not a whit,
    But rather doth further the _Virtues Morale_;
  Then think it not much if a little I touch
    The good moral parts of a _pot of good ale_.

  To the _Church_ and _Religion_ it is a good Friend,
    Or else our Fore-Fathers their wisedome did faile,
  That at every mile, next to the _Church_ stile,
    Set a _consecrate house_ to a _pot of good ale_.

  But now, as they say, _Beer_ bears it away;
    The more is the pity, if right might prevaile:
  For, with this same _Beer_, came up _Heresie_ here,
    The old _Catholicke drink_ is a _pot of good ale_.

  The _Churches_ much ow[e], as we all do know,
    For when they be drooping and ready to fall,
  By a _Whitson_ or _Church-ale_, up again they shall go,
    And owe their _repairing_ to a _pot of good ale_.

  _Truth_ will do it right, it brings _Truth_ to light,
    And many bad matters it helps to reveal:
  For, they that will drink, will speak what they think:
    TOM _tell-troth_ lies hid in a _pot of good ale_.

  It is _Justices_ Friend, she will it commend,
    For all is here served by _measure_ and _tale_;
  Now, _true-tale_ and _good measure_ are _Justices_ treasure,
    And much to the praise of a _pot of good ale_.

  And next I alledge, it is _Fortitudes_ edge[,]
    For a very Cow-heard, that shrinks like a Snaile,
  Will swear and will swagger, and out goes his Dagger,
    If he be but arm’d with a _pot of good ale_.

  Yea, ALE hath her _Knights_ and _Squires_ of Degree,
    That never wore Corslet, nor yet shirts of Maile,
  But have fought their fights all, twixt the pot and the wall,
    When once they were dub’d with a _pot of good ale_.

  And sure it will make a man suddenly _wise_,
    Er’e-while was scarce able to tell a right tale:
  It will open his jaw, he will tell you the _Law_,
    As make a right _Bencher_ of a _pot of good ale_.

  Or he that will make a _bargain_ to gain,
    In _buying_ or _setting_ his goods forth to _sale_,
  Must not plod in the mire, but sit by the fire,
    And seale up his Match with a _pot of good ale_.

  But for _Soberness_, needs must I confess,
    The matter goes hard; and few do prevaile
  Not to go too deep, but _temper_ to keep,
    Such is the _Attractive_ of a _pot of good ale_.

  But here’s an amends, which will make all Friends,
    And ever doth tend to the best availe:
  If you take it too deep, it will make you but sleep;
    So comes no great harm of a _pot of good ale_.

  If (reeling) they happen to fall to the ground,
    The fall is not great, they may hold by the Raile:
  If into the water, they cannot be drown’d,
    For that gift is given to a _pot of good ale_.

  If drinking about they chance to fall out,
    Fear not that _Alarm_, though flesh be but fraile;
  It will prove but some blowes, or at most a bloody nose,
    And Friends again straight with a _pot of good ale_.

  And _Physic_ will favour ALE, as it is bound,
    And be against _Beere_ both tooth and naile;
  They send up and down, all over the town
    To get for their Patients a _pot of good ale_.

  Their _Ale-berries_, _cawdles_, and _Possets_ each one,
    And _Syllabubs_ made at the Milking-pale,
  Although they be many, _Beere_ comes not in any,
    But all are composed with a _pot of good ale_.

  And in very deed the _Hop’s_ but a Weed,
    Brought o’re against Law, and here set to sale:
  Would the Law were renew’d, and no more _Beer_ brew’d,
    But all men betake them to a _Pot of good ale_.

  The _Law_ that will take it under his wing,
    For, at every _Law-day_, or _Moot of the hale_,
  One is sworn to serve our _Soveraigne_ the KING,
    In the ancient _Office_ of a CONNER of ALE.

  There’s never a Lord of _Mannor_ or of a Town,
    By strand or by land, by hill or by dale,
  But thinks it a _Franchise_, and a _Flow’r_ of the CROWN,
    To hold the _Assize_ of a _pot of good ale_.

  And though there lie _Writs_ from the _Courts Paramount_,
    To stay the proceedings of _Courts Paravaile_;
  _Law_ favours it so, you may come, you may go,
    There lies no _Prohibition_ to a _pot of good ale_.

  They talk much of _State_, both early and late,
    But if _Gascoign_ and _Spain_ their _Wine_ should but faile,
  No remedy then, with us _Englishmen_,
    But the _State_ it must stand by a _pot of good ale_.

  And they that sit by it are good men and quiet,
    No dangerous _Plotters_ in the Common-weale
  Of _Treason_ and _Murder_: For they never go further
    Than to call for, and pay for a _pot of good ale_.

  To the praise of GAMBRIVIUS that good _Brittish King_
    That devis’d for his Nation (by the _Welshmen’s_ tale)
  Seventeen hundred years before CHRIST did spring,
    The happy invention of a _pot of good ale_.

  The _North_ they will praise it, and praise with passion,
    Where every _River_ gives name to a _Dale_:
  There men are yet living that are of th’ old fashion,
    No _Nectar_ they know but a _pot of good ale_.

  The PICTS and the SCOTS for ALE were at lots,
    So high was the skill, and so kept under seale;
  The PICTS were undone, slain each mothers son,
    For not teaching the SCOTS to make _Hether Eale_.

  But hither or thither, it skils not much whether:
    For Drink must be had, men live not by _Keale_,
  Not by _Havor-bannocks_ nor by _Havor-jannocks_,
    The thing the SCOTS live on is a _pot of good ale_.

  Now, if ye will say it, I will not denay it,
    That many a man it brings to his bale:
  Yet what fairer end can one wish to his Friend,
  Th an to dye by the part of a _pot of good ale_.

  Yet let not the innocent bear any blame,
    It is their own doings to break o’re the pale:
  And neither the _Malt_, nor the good wife in fault,
    If any be potted with a _pot of good ale_.

  They tell whom it kills, but say not a word,
    How many a man liveth both sound and hale,
  Though he drink no _Beer_ any day in the year,
    By the _Radical humour_ of a _pot of good ale_.

  But to speak of _Killing_, that am I not willing,
    For that in a manner were but to raile:
  But _Beer_ hath its name, ’cause it brings to the _Biere_,
    Therefore well-fare, say I, to a _pot of good ale_.

  Too many (I wis) with their deaths proved this,
    And, therefore (if ancient Records do not faile),
  He that first brew’d the _Hop_ was rewarded with a _rope_,
    And found his _Beer_ far more _bitter_ than ALE.

  O ALE[!] _ab alendo_, the _Liquor_ of LIFE,
    That I had but a mouth as big as a _Whale_!
  For mine is too little to touch the least tittle
    That belongs to the praise of a _pot of good ale_.

  Thus (I trow) some _Vertues_ I have mark’d you out,
    And never a _Vice_ in all this long traile,
  But that after the _Pot_ there cometh the _Shot_,
    And that’s th’ onely _blot_ of a _pot of good ale_.—

  With that my Friend said, that _blot_ will I bear,
    You have done very well, it is time to strike saile,
  Wee’l have six pots more, though I dye on the score,
    To make all this good of a _Pot of good ALE_.

[Followed by Ben Jonson’s Cook Lorrel, and by The Blacksmith: for which
see _Merry Drollery, Complete_, pp. 214-17, 225-30.]

[p. 14.]

_An Old Song of an Old Courtier and a New._

  With an Old Song made by an Old Ancient pate,
    Of an Old worshipful Gentleman who had a great Estate;
  Who kept an old house at a bountiful rate,
    And an old Porter to relieve the Poore at his Gate,
              _Like an old Courtier of the Queens_.

  With an old Lady whose anger and [? one] good word asswages,
    Who every quarter payes her old Servants their wages,
  Who never knew what belongs to Coachmen, Footmen, & Pages,
    But kept twenty thrifty old Fellows, with blew-coats and badges,
              _Like an old Courtier of the Queens_.

  With an old Study fill’d full of Learned books,
    With an old Reverent Parson, you may judge him by his looks,
  With an old Buttery hatch worn quite off the old hooks,
    And an old Kitching, which maintains half a dozen old cooks;
              _Like an old Courtier of the Queens_.

  With an old Hall hung round about with Guns, Pikes, and Bowes,
    With old swords & bucklers, which hath born[e] many shrew’d blows,
  And an old Frysadoe coat to cover his Worships trunk hose,
    And a cup of old Sherry to comfort his Copper Nose;
              _Like an old Courtier of the Queens_.

  With an old Fashion, when _Christmas_ is come,
    To call in his Neighbours with Bag-pipe and Drum,
  And good chear enough to furnish every old Room,
    And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and a wise man dumb;
              _like an Old_ [_Courtier of the Queens_.]

  With an old Hunts-man, a Falkoner, and a Kennel of Hounds;
    Which never Hunted, nor Hawked but in his own Grounds;
  Who like an old wise man kept himself within his own bounds,
    And when he died gave every child a thousand old pounds;
              _like an Old_ [_Courtier of the Queens_.]

  But to his eldest Son his house and land he assign’d,
    Charging him in his Will to keep the same bountiful mind,
  To be good to his Servants, and to his Neighbours kind,
    But in th’ ensuing Ditty you shall hear how he was enclin’d;
              _like a young Courtier of the Kings_.

[Part Second.]

  Like a young Gallant newly come to his Land,
    That keeps a brace of Creatures at’s own command,
  And takes up a thousand pounds upon’s own Band,
    And lieth drunk in a new Tavern, till he can neither go nor stand;
              _like a young_ [_Courtier of the Kings_].

  With a neat Lady that is fresh and fair,
    Who never knew what belong’d to good housekeeping or care,
  But buyes several Fans to play with the wanton ayre,
    And seventeen or eighteen dressings of other womens haire;
              _like a young_ [_Courtier of the Kings_].

  With a new Hall built where the old one stood,
    Wherein is burned neither coale nor wood,
  And a new Shuffel-board-table where never meat stood,
    Hung Round with Pictures, which doth the poor little good.
              _like a young_ [_Courtier of the Kings_].

  With a new study stuff’t full of Pamphlets and playes,
    With a new Chaplin, that swears faster then he prayes,
  With a new Buttery hatch that opens once in four or five dayes,
    With a new _French-Cook_ to make Kickshawes and Tayes;
              _like a young Courtier of the Kings_.

  With a new Fashion, when _Christmasse_ is come,
    With a journey up to _London_ we must be gone,
  And leave no body at home but our new Porter _John_,
    Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone;
              _Like a young_ [_Courtier of the Kings_].

  With a Gentleman-Vsher whose carriage is compleat,
    With a Footman, a Coachman, a Page to carry meat,
  With a waiting Gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat,
    Who when the master hath dyn’d gives the servants litle meat;
              _Like a young_ [_Courtier of the Kings_].

  With a new honour bought with his Fathers Old Gold,
    That many of his Fathers Old Manors hath sold,
  And this is the occasion that most men do hold,
    That good Hous[e]-keeping is now-a-dayes grown so cold;
              _Like a young Courtier of the Kings_.

[Here follow, Arthur of Bradley (see _Merry Drollery, Compleat_, p. 312);
The Green Gown: “Pan leave piping,” (see _Westm. Droll._, Appendix, p.
54); Gelding of the Devil: “Now listen a while, and I will you tell” (see
_Merry D., C._, p. 200); Sir Egle More (_ibid_, p. 257); and St. George
for England (_ibid_, p. 309). But, as the variations are great, in the
last of these, it is here given from the _Antidote ag. Mel._, p. 26.]

[p. 26.]

_The Ballad of St. George for England._

  Why should we boast of _Arthur_ and his Knights?
  Know[ing] how many men have perform’d fights;
  Or why should we speak of Sir _Lancelot du Lake_,
  Or Sir _Trestram du Leon_, that fought for the Lady’s sake;
  Read old storyes, and there you’l see
  How St. _George_, St. _George_, did make the Dragon flee:
      St. _George_ he was for _England_, St. _Denis_ was for _France_,
          Sing _Hony soitt qui Mal y pense_.

  To speak of the Monarchy, it were two Long to tell;
  And likewise of the _Romans_, how far they did excel,
  _Hannibal_ and _Scipio_, they many a field did fight;
  _Orlando Furioso_ he was a valiant Knight;
  _Romulus_ and _Rhemus_ were those that ROME did build,
  But St. _George_, St. _George_, the Dragon he hath kill’d;
      St. _George_ he was, _&c._

  _Jephtha_ and _Gidion_ they led their men to fight
  The _Gibeonites_ and _Amonites_, they put them all to flight;
  Hercul’es Labour was in the Vale of Brass,
  And _Sampson_ slew a thousand with the Jaw-bone of an Asse,
  And when he was blind pull’d the Temple to the ground:
  But St. _George_, St. _George_, the Dragon did confound.
      St. _George_ he was, _&c._

  _Valentine_ and _Orson_ they came of _Pipins_ blood,
  _Alphred_ and _Aldrecus_ they were brave Knights and good,
  The four sons of _Amnon_ that fought with _Charlemaine_,
  Sir _Hugh de Burdeaux_ and _Godfray_ of _Bolaigne_,
  These were all _French_ Knights the _Pagans_ did Convert,
  But St. _George_, St. _George_, pull’d forth the Dragon’s heart:
      St. _George_ he was, _&c._

  _Henry_ the fifth he Conquered all _France_,
  He quartered their Armes, his Honour to advance,
  He razed their Walls, and pull’d their Cities down,
  And garnished his Head with a double treble Crown;
  He thumbed the _French_, and after home he came!
  But St. _George_, St. _George_, he made the Dragon _tame_:
      St. _George_ he was, _&c._

  St. _David_ you know, loves _Leeks_ and tosted _Cheese_,
  And _Jason_ was the Man, brought home the _Golden_ Fleece;
  St. _Patrick_ you know he was St. _Georges_ Boy,
  Seven years he kept his Horse, and then stole him away,
  For which Knavish act, a slave he doth remain;
  But St. _George_, St. _George_, he hath the Dragon slain:
      St. _George_ he was, &c.

  _Tamberline_, the Emperour, in Iron Cage did Crown,
  With his bloody Flag’s display’d before the Town;
  _Scanderbag_ magnanimous _Mahomets Bashaw_ did dread,
  Whose Victorious Bones were worn when he was dead;
  His _Bedlerbegs_, his Corn like drags, _George Castriot_ was he call’d,
  But St. _George_, St. _George_, the Dragon he hath maul’d:
      St. _George_ he was for _England_, St. _Denis_ was for _France_,
          Sing _Hony soit qui mal y pense_.

  _Ottoman_, the _Tartar_, _Cham_ of _Persia’s_ race,
  The great _Mogul_, with his Chests so full of all his Cloves and Mace,
  The _Grecian_ youth _Bucephalus_ he manly did bestride,
  But those with all their Worthies Nine, St. _George_ did them deride,
  _Gustavus Adolphus_ was _Swedelands_ Warlike King,
  But St. _George_, St. _George_, pull’d forth the Dragon’s sting.
      St. _George_ he was for _England_, St. _Dennis_ was for _France_,
          Sing _Hony soit qui mal y pense_.

  _Pendragon_ and _Cadwallader_ of _British_ blood doe boast,
  Though _John_ of _Gant_ his foes did daunt, St. _George_ shal rule the
  _Agamemnon_ and _Cleomedon_ and _Macedon_ did feats,
  But, compared to our Champion, they were but merely cheats;
  Brave _Malta_ Knights in _Turkish_ fights, their brandisht swords
  But St. _George_ met the Dragon, and ran him through and through:
      St. _George_ he was, &c.

  _Bidea_, the Amazon, _Photius_ overthrew,
  As fierce as either _Vandal_, _Goth_, _Saracen_, or _Jew_;
  The potent _Holophernes_, as he lay in his bed,
  In came wise _Judith_ and subtly stool[e] his head;
  Brave _Cyclops_ stout, with _Jove_ he fought, Although he showr’d down
  But St. _George_ kill’d the Dragon, and was not that a wonder:
      St. _George_ he was, &c.

  _Mark Anthony_, Ile warrant you Plaid feats with _Egypts_ Queen,
  Sir _Egla More_ that valiant Knight, the like was never seen,
  Grim _Gorgons_ might, was known in fight, old _Bevis_ most men frighted,
  The _Myrmidons_ & _Presbyter John_, why were not those men knighted?
  Brave _Spinola_ took in _Breda_, _Nasaw_ did it recover,
  But St. _George_, St. _George_, he turn’d the Dragon over and over:
      St. _George_ he was for _England_, St. _Denis_ was for _France_,
      Sing, _Hony soit qui mal y pense_.

_A Ballad ~call’d~ Blew Cap for me._

  Come hither thou merriest of all the Nine, [p. 29.]
    Come, sit you down by me, and let us be jolly;
  And with a full Cup of _Apollo’s_ wine,
    Wee’l dare our Enemy mad Melancholly;
  And when we have done, wee’l between us devise
  A pleasant new Dity by Art to comprise:
    And of this new Dity the matter shall be,
  _If ever I have a man, blew cap for me_.

    There dwells a blith Lass in _Falkland_ Town
  And she hath Suitors I know not how many,
    And her resolution she had set down
  That she’l have a _Blew Cap_, if ever she have any.
  An _Englishman_ when our geod Knight was there,
  Came often unto her, and loved her dear,
    Yet still she replyed, Geod Sir, La be,
  _If ever I have a man, blew cap for me_.

  A _Welchman_ that had a long Sword by his side,
    Red Doublet, red Breech, and red Coat, and red Peard,
  Was made a great shew of a great deal of pride,
    Was tell her strange tales te like never heard;
  Was recon her pedegree long pefore _Prute_[,]
  No body was near that could her Confute;
    But still she reply’d, Geod Sir la be,
  _If ever I have a man, blew Cap for me_.

  A _Frenchman_ that largely was booted and spurr’d,
    Long Lock with a ribbon, long points and long preeshes,
  Was ready to kisse her at every word,
    And for the other exercises his fingers itches;
  You be prety wench _a Metrel, par ma Foy_,
  Dear me do love you, be not so coy;
    Yet still replyed, Geod Sir, la be;
  _If ever I have a man, blew Cap for me_.

  An _Irishman_, with a long skeen in his Hose,
    Did think to obtain her, it was no great matter,
  Up stairs to the chamber so lightly he goes,
    That she never heard him until he came at her,
  Quoth he, I do love thee, by Fait and by Trot,
  And if thou wilt know it, experience shall sho’t,
    Yet still she reply’d, Geod sir, la be,
  _If ever I have a man, blew Cap for me_.

  A _Netherland_ Mariner came there by chance,
    Whose cheekes did resemble two rosting pome-watters,
  And to this Blith lasse this sute did advance;
    Experience had taught him to cog, lie, and flatter;
  Quoth he, I will make thee sole Lady of the sea,
  Both _Spanyard_ and _English_ man shall thee obey:
    Yet still she replyed, [Geod sir, La be,
  _If ever I have a man, blew cap for me_].

  At last came a _Scotchman_ with a _blew Cap_,
    And that was the man for whom she had tarryed,
  To get this Blyth lass it was his Giud hap,
    They gan to _Kirk_ and were presently married;
  She car’d not whether he were Lord or Leard,
  She call’d him sick a like name as I ne’r heard,
    To get him from aw she did well agree,
  And still she cryed, _blew Cap_ thou art welcome to mee.

[p. 30.]

_The Ballad of the Caps._

  The Wit hath long beholding been
    Unto the Cap to keep it in;
  But now the wits fly out amain,
    In prayse to quit the Cap again;
  The Cap that keeps the highest part
    Obtains the place by due desert:
        _For any Cap, &c._ [_what ere it bee,_
        _Is still the signe of some degree._]

  The _Monmouth_ Cap, the Saylors thrumbe,
    And that wherein the Tradesmen come,
  The Physick Cap, the Cap Divine,
    And that which Crownes the Muses nine,
  The Cap that fooles do Countenance,
    The goodly Cap of Maintenance.
        _For any Cap, &c._

  The sickly Cap both plain and wrought,
    The Fudling cap, how ever bought,
  The worsted, Furr’d, the Velvet, Sattin,
    For which so many pates learn Latin;
  The Cruel cap, the Fustian Pate,
    The Perewig, a Cap of late:
        _For any Cap, &c._

  The Souldiers that the _Monmoth_ wear,
    On Castles tops their Ensigns rear;
  The Sea-man with his Thrumb doth stand
    On higher parts then all the Land;
  The Tradesmans Cap aloft is born,
    By vantage of a stately horn.
        _For any Cap, &c._

  The Physick Cap to dust can bring
    Without controul the greatest King:
  The Lawyers Cap hath Heavenly might
    To make a crooked action straight;
  And if you’l line him in the fist,
    The Cause hee’l warrant as he list.
        _For any Cap, &c._

  Both East and West, and North and South,
    Where ere the Gospel hath a mouth
  The Cap Divine doth thither look:
    Tis Square like Scholars and their Books:
  The rest are Round, but this is Square
    To shew their Wits more stable are:
        _For any Cap, &c._

  The Jester he a Cap doth wear,
    Which makes him Fellow for a Peer,
  And ’tis no slender piece of Wit
    To act the Fool, where great Men sit,
  But O, the Cap of _London_ Town!
    I wis, ’tis like a goodly Crown.
        _For any Cap, &c._

  The sickly Cap[,] though wrought with silk,
    Is like repentance, white as milk;
  When Caps drop off at health apace,
    The Cap doth then your head uncase,
  The sick mans Cap (if wrought can tell)
    Though he be sick, his cap is well.
        _For any Cap, &c._

  The fudling Cap by _Bacchus_ Might,
    Turns night to day, and day to night;
  We know it makes proud heads to bend,
    The Lowly feet for to Ascend:
  It makes men richer then before,
    By seeing doubly all their score.
        _For any Cap, &c._

  The furr’d and quilted Cap of age
    Can make a mouldy proverb sage,
  The Satin and the Velvet hive
    Into a Bishoprick may thrive,
  The Triple Cap may raise some hope,
    If fortune serve, to be a Pope;
        _For any Cap, &c._

  The Perewig, O, this declares
    The rise of flesh, though fall of haires,
  And none but Grandsiers can proceed
    So far in sin, till they this need,
  Before the King who covered are,
    And only to themselves stand bare.
        _For any Cap, what ere it bee,_
        _Is still the signe of some degree._

[Next follow A Ballad of the Nose (see _Merry Drollery, Compleat_, p.
143), and A Song of the Hot-headed Zealot: _to the tune of “~Tom a
Bedlam~”_ (Dr. Richard Corbet’s, _Ibid_, p. 234).]

[p. 37.]

_A Song On the Schismatick Rotundos._

  Once I a curious Eye did fix,
    To observe the tricks
  Of the _schismatics_ of the Times,
  To find out which of them
        Was the merriest Theme,
  And best would befit my Rimes.
  _Arminius_ I found solid,
        _Socinians_ were not stolid,
  Much Learning for Papists did stickle.
        _But ah, ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ~Rotundos~ rot,_
    _Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ~Rotundos~ rot,_
        _’Tis you that my spleen doth tickle._

  And first to tell must not be forgot,
        How I once did trot
  With a great Zealot to a Lecture,
  Where I a Tub did view,
        Hung with apron blew:
  ’Twas the Preachers, as I conjecture.
  His life and his Doctrine too
  Were of no other hue,
  Though he spake in a tone most mickle;
        _But ah, ha, ha, ha, &c._

  He taught amongst other prety things
        That the Book of _Kings_
  Small benefit brings to the godly,
        Beside he had some grudges
        At the Book of _Judges_,
  And talkt of _Leviticus_ odly.
  _Wisedome_ most of all
        He declares _Apocryphal_,
  Beat _Bell_ and the _Dragon_ like _Michel_:
        _But, ah, ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, &c._

  Gainst Humaine Learning next he enveyes
        and most boldly say’s,
  ’Tis that which destroyes Inspiration:
        Let superstitious sence
        And wit be banished hence,
  With Popish Predomination:
  Cut _Bishops_ down in hast,
        And _Cathedrals_ as fast
  As corn that’s fit for the sickle:
        _But ah, ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ~Rotundos~, rot,_
    _ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ~Rotundos~ rot,_
        _’Tis you that my spleen doth tickle._

[The three next in the _Antidote_, respectively by Aurelian Townshend
(?), Sir John Suckling, and “by T. R.” (or Dr. Thomas Wild?), are to be
found also in our _Merry Drollery, Compleat_, pp. 218, 101, and 242. See
Appendix Notes.]

[p. 47.]

_The Welshmans Song, in praise of Wales._

  I’s not come here to tauke of _Prut_,
  From whence the _Welse_ dos take hur root;
  Nor tell long Pedegree of Prince _Camber_,
  Whose linage would fill full a Chamber,
  Nor sing the deeds of ould Saint _Davie_,
  The Ursip of which would fill a Navie,
  But hark me now for a liddell tales
  Sall make a great deal to the creddit of _Wales_:
      For her will tudge your eares,
      With the praise of hur thirteen Seers,
      And make you as clad and merry,
      As fourteen pot of Perry.

  ’Tis true, was wear him Sherkin freize,
  But what is that? we have store of seize, [_i.e._ cheese,]
  And Got is plenty of Goats milk
  That[,] sell him well[,] will buy him silk
  Inough, to make him fine to quarrell
  At _Herford_ Sizes in new apparrell;
  And get him as much green Melmet perhap,
  Sall give it a face to his Monmouth Cap.
      But then the ore of _Lemster_;
      Py Cot is uver a Sempster;
      That when he is spun, or did[,]
      Yet match him with hir thrid.

  Aull this the backs now, let us tell yee,
  Of some provision for the belly:
  As Kid and Goat, and great Goats Mother,
  And Runt and Cow, and good Cows uther.
  And once but tast on the Welse Mutton,
  Your _Englis_ Seeps not worth a button.
  And then for your Fisse, shall choose it your disse,
  Look but about, and there is a Trout,
      A Salmon, Cot, or Chevin,
      Will feed you six or seven,
      As taull man as ever swagger
      With _Welse_ Club, and long dagger.

  But all this while, was never think
  A word in praise of our _Welse_ drink:
  And yet for aull that, is a Cup of _Bragat_,
  Aull _England_ Seer may cast his Cap at.
  And what say you to Ale of _Webly_[?],
  Toudge him as well, you’ll praise him trebly,
  As well as _Metheglin_, or _Syder_, or _Meath_,
  Sall sake it your dagger quite out o’ th seath.
      And Oat-Cake of _Guarthenion_,
      With a goodly Leek or Onion,
      To give as sweet a rellis
      As e’r did Harper _Ellis_.

  And yet is nothing now all this,
  If our Musicks we do misse;
  Both Harps, and Pipes too; and the Crowd
  Must aull come in, and tauk aloud,
  As lowd as _Bangu_, _Davies_ Bell,
  Of which is no doubt you have hear tell:
  As well as our lowder _Wrexam_ Organ,
  And rumbling Rocks in the Seer of _Glamorgan_;
      Where look but in the ground there,
      And you sall see a sound there:
      That put her all to gedder,
      Is sweet as measure pedder.

[Followed, in _An Antidote_, by the excellent poems, The Cavalier’s
Complaint; to the tune of (Suckling’s) _I’le tell thee, Dick, &c._, with
The Answer. For these, see _Merry Drollery, Compleat_, pp. 52-56, and

[p. 52.]

_On a Pint of SACK._

  Old poets Hipocrin admire,
  And pray to water to inspire
  Their wit and Muse with heavenly fire;
  Had they this Heav’nly Fountain seen,
  Sack both their Well and Muse had been,
  And this Pint-pot their Hipocrin.

  Had they truly discovered it
  They had like me thought it unfit
  To pray to water for their wit.
  And had adored Sack as divine,
  And made a Poet God of Wine,
  And this pint-pot had been a shrine.

  Sack unto them had been in stead
  Of Nectar, and their heav’nly bread,
  And ev’ry boy a Ganimed;
  Or had they made a God of it,
  Or stil’d it patron of their wit,
  This pot had been a temple fit.

  Well then Companions is’t not fit,
  Since to this Jemme we ow[e] our wit,
  That we should praise the Cabonet,
  And drink a health to this divine,
  And bounteous pallace of our wine[?]:
  Die he with thirst that doth repine!

[p. 53.]

_A Song in Praise of SACK._

  Hang the _Presbyters_ Gill, bring a pint of Sack, _Will_,
    More _Orthodox_ of the two,
  Though a slender dispute, will strike the Elf mute,
    Here’s one of the honester Crew.

  In a pint there’s small heart, Sirrah, bring a Quart;
    There is substance and vigour met,
  ’Twill hold us in play, some part of the day,
    But wee’l sink him before Sun-set:

  The daring old Pottle, does now bid us battle,
    Let us try what our strength can do;
  Keep your ranks and your files, and for all his wiles,
    Wee’l tumble him down stayrs too.

  Then summon a Gallon, a stout Foe and a tall one,
    And likely to hold us to’t;
  Keep but Coyn in your purse, the word is Disburse,
    Ile warrant he’le sleep at your foot.

  Let’s drain the whole Celler, Pipes, Buts, and the Dweller,
    If the Wine floats not the faster;
  _Will_, when thou dost slack us, by warrant from _Bacchus_,
    We will cane thy tun-belli’d Master.

[p. 54.]

_In the praise of WINE._

  ’Tis Wine that inspires,
    And quencheth Loves fires,
  Teaches fools how to rule a S[t]ate:
    Mayds ne’re did approve it
  Because those that doe love it,
    Despise and laugh at their hate.

  The drinkers of beer
    Did ne’re yet appear
  In matters of any waight;
    ’Tis he whose designe
  Is quickn’d by wine
    That raises things to their height.

  We then should it prize
    For never black eyes
  Made wounds which this could not heale,
    Who then doth refuse,
  To drink of this Juice
    Is a foe to the Comon weale.

[Followed by A Glee to the Vicar, beginning, “Let the bells ring, and the
boys sing:” for which see the Introduction to our edition of _Westminster
Drollery_, pp. xxxvii-viii.]

[p. 55.]

_On a Cold Chyne of BEEF._

  Bring out the Old Chyne, the Cold Chyne to me,
  And how Ile charge him come and see,
  Brawn tusked, Brawn well sowst and fine,
  With a precious cup of Muscadine:


          _How shall I sing, how shall I look,_
          _In honour of the Master-Cook?_

  The Pig shall turn round and answer me,
  Canst thou spare me a shoulder[?], a wy, a wy.
  The Duck, Goose and Capon, good fellows all three
  Shall dance thee an antick[,] so shall the turkey;
      But O! the cold Chyne, the cold Chyne for me:


          _How shall I sing, how shall I look,_
          _In honour of the Master-Cook?_

  With brewis Ile noynt thee from head to th’ heel,
  Shal make thee run nimbler then the new oyld wheel[;]
  With Pye-crust wee’l make thee
  The eighth wise man to be;
      But O! the cold Chyne, the cold Chyne for me:


          _How shall I sing, how shall I look,_
          _In honour of the Master-Cook?_

[p. 56.]

_A Song of Cupid Scorn’d._

  In love[?] away, you do me wrong,
  I hope I ha’ not liv’d so long
  Free from the Treachery of your eyes,
  Now to be caught and made a prize,
      No, Lady, ’tis not all your art,
      Can make me and my freedome part.


    _Come, fill’s a cup of sherry, and let us be merry,_
      _There shall nought but pure wine_
      _Make us love-sick or pine,_
    _Wee’l hug the cup and kisse it, we’l sigh when ere we misse it;_
      _For tis that, that makes us jolly,_
      _And sing hy trololey lolly._

  In love, ’tis true, with _Spanish_ wine,
  Or the _French_ juice _Incarnadine_;
  But truly not with your sweet Face,
  This dimple, or that hidden grace,
      Ther’s far more sweetnesse in pure Wine,
      Then in those Lips or Eyes of thine.

    CHORUS (_Come, fill’s a cup of sherry, &c._

  Your god[,] you say, can shoot so right,
  Hee’l wound a heart ith darkest night:
  Pray let him throw away a dart,
  And try if he can hit my heart.
      No _Cupid_, if I shall be thine,
      Turn _Ganimed_ and fill us Wine.

    CHORUS (_Come, fill’s a cup of sherry, &c._

[The three next are common to the _Antidote_ and _Merry Drollery,
Compleat_, with a few verbal differences: On the Vertue of Sack, by Dr.
Henry Edwards; The Medley of the Nations; and The Brewer, A Ballad made
in the Year 1657, To the Tune of _The Blacksmith_. For them, see _M. D.,
C._, pp. 293, 127, 221. These three poems are followed by “A Collection
of Merry Catches,” thirty-four in number, of which only ten are found
in _Merry Drollery, Compleat_, (viz., 3. “Now that the Spring;” 5.
“Call _George_ again;” 9. “She that will eat;” 13. “The Wise-men were
but Seven;” 14. “Shew a room!” 15. “O! the wily wily Fox;” 17. “Now I
am married;” 19. “There was three Cooks in Colebrook;” 22. “If any so
wise is;” and 29. “What fortune had I,”) on pp. 296, 304, 308, 232, 337,
300, 280, 318, 348, and 341, respectively. See notes on them, also, in
Appendix to _M. D., C._ One other, first in the _Antidote_, had appeared
earlier in _Choice Drollery_, p. 52: “He that a Tinker,” &c., _q.v._]

[p. 65.]


  2. You merry Poets[,] old Boyes
       Of _Aganippes_ Well,
     Full many tales have told boyes
       Whose liquor doth excell,
     And how that place was haunted
     By those that love good wine;
     Who tipled there, and chaunted
     Among the _Muses_ nine:
     Where still they cry’d[,] drink clear, boyes,
     And you shall quickly know it,
     That ’tis not lowzy Beer, boyes,
     But wine, that makes a Poet.

[p. 66.]


  4. Mong’st all the precious Juices
       Afforded for our uses,
     Ther’s none to be compar’d with Sack:
       For the body or the mind,
       No such Physick you shall find,
     Therefore boy see we do not lack.

     Would’st thou hit a lofty strain,
       With this Liquor warm thy brain,
     And thou Swain shalt sing as sweet as _Sidney_;
       Or would’st thou laugh and be fat,
       Ther’s not any like to that
     To make _Jack Sprat_ a man of kidney.

     [It] Is the soul of mirth
       To poor Mortals upon Earth;
     It would make a coward bold as _Hector_,
       Nay I wager durst a Peece,
       That those merry Gods of _Greece_
     Drank old Sack and _Nector_.

[p. 67.]


  6. Come, come away to the Tavern I say,
     For now at home ’tis washing day:
     Leave your prittle prattle, and fill us a pottle[;]
     You are not so wise as _Aristotle_:
     Drawer come away, let’s make it Holy day.
     Anon, Anon, Anon, Sir: what is’t you say[?]


  7. There was an old man at _Walton_ cross, [Waltham]
     Who merrily sung when he liv’d by the loss;
             _Hey tro-ly loly lo_.
     He never was heard to sigh a hey ho,
     But he sent it out with _Hey troly loly lo_.
             He chear’d up his heart,
             When his goods went to wrack[,]
             With a hem, boy, Hem!
             And a cup of old Sack;
               Sing, _hey troly loly lo_.


  8. Come, let us cast _Dice_ who shall drink,
     Mine is _twelve_, and his _sice sink_,
     _Six_ and _Fowr_ is thine, and he threw _nine_.
     Come away, _Sink tray_; _Size ace_, fair play;
     _Quater-duce_ is your throw Sir; [p. 68.]
     _Quater-ace_, they run low, sir:
     _Two Dewces_, I see; _Dewce ace_ is but three:
     Oh! where is the Wine? Come, fill up his glasse,
     For here is the man has thrown _Ams-ace_.


  10. Never let a man take heavily the clamor of his wife,
      But be rul’d by me, and lead a merry life;
      Let her have her will in every thing,
      If she scolds, then laugh and sing,
                    _Hey derry, derry, ding_.


  11. Let’s cast away care, and merrily sing,
        There is a time for every thing;
        He that playes at work, and works at his play,
        Neither keeps working, nor yet Holy day:
        Set business aside, and let us be merry,
      And drown our dull thoughts in Canary and Sherry.


  12. Hang sorrow, and cast away care,
        And let us drink up our Sack:
      They say ’tis good to cherish the blood,
        And for to strengthen the back:
      Tis Wine that makes the thoughts aspire,
        And fills the body with heat;
      Besides ’tis good, if well understood [p. 69.]
        To fit a man for the feat;
          _Then call, and drink up all,_
            _The drawer is ready to fill:_
          _Pox take care, what need we to spare,_
            _My Father has made his will._

[p. 70.]


  16. My lady and her Maid, upon a merry pin,
      They made a match at F—ting, who should the wager win.
      _Jone_ lights three candles then, and sets them bolt upright;
      With the first f—— she blew them out,
      With the next she gave them light:
      In comes my Lady then, with all her might and main,
      And blew them out, and in and out, and out and in again.


  18. An old house end, an old house end,
      And many a good fellow wants mon[e]y to spend.
                If thou wilt borrow
                Come hither to morrow
      I dare not part so soon with my friend[.]
      But let us be merry, and drink of our sherry,
      But to part with my mon[e]y I do not intend[.]
      Then a t—d in thy teeth, and an old house end.

[p. 71.]


  20. Wilt thou lend me thy Mare to ride a mile
      No; she’s lame going over a stile,
      But if thou wilt her to me spare
      Thou shalt have mony for thy mare:
      Oh say you so, say you so,
      Mon[e]y will make my mare to go.


  21. Your mare is lame; she halts downe right,
      Then shall we not get to _London_ to night:
      You cry’d ho, ho, mon[e]y made her go,
      But now I well perceive it is not so[.]
      You must spur her up, and put her to’t
      Though mon[e]y will not make her goe, your spurs will do’t.

[p. 72.]


  23. Good _Symon_, how comes it your Nose looks so red,
        And your cheeks and lips look so pale?
      Sure the heat of the tost your Nose did so rost,
        When they were both sous’t in Ale.
      It showes like the Spire of _Pauls_ steeple on fire,
      Each Ruby darts forth (such lightning) Flashes,
      While your face looks as dead, as if it were Lead
        And cover’d all over with ashes.
      Now to heighten his colour, yet fill his pot fuller
        And nick it not so with froth,
      Gra-mercy, mine Host! it shall save the[e] a Toast
        Sup _Simon_, for here is good broth.


  24. Wilt thou be Fatt, Ile tell thee how,
      Thou shalt quickly do the Feat;
      And that so plump a thing as thou
      Was never yet made up of meat:
      Drink off thy Sack, twas onely that
      Made _Bacchus_ and _Jack Falstafe_, Fatt.

      Now, every Fat man I advise,
      That scarce can peep out of his eyes,
      Which being set, can hardly rise; [p. 73.]
      Drink off his Sack, and freely quaff:
      ’Twil make him lean, but me [to] laugh
      To tell him how —— ’tis on a staff.


  25. Of all the _Birds_ that ever I see,
          The _Owle_ is the fairest in her degree;
      For all the day long she sits in a tree,
      And when the night comes, away flies she;
          To whit, to whow, to whom drink[’st] thou,
              Sir Knave to thou;

      This song is well sung, I make you a vow, [p. 73.]
      And he is a knave that drinketh now;
      Nose, Nose, Nose, and who gave thee that jolly red Nose?
      [Cinnamon and gin-ger,]
      Nutmegs and Cloves, and that gave thee thy jolly red Nose.


  26. This Ale, my bonny Lads, is as brown as a berry,
        Then let us be merry here an houre,
          And drink it ere its sowre
          Here’s to the[e], lad,
          Come to me, lad;
          Let it come Boy, To my Thumb boy.
        Drink it off Sir; ’tis enough Sir;
      Fill mine Host, _Tom’s_ Pot and Toast.


  27. What! are we met? come, let’s see
        If here’s enough to sing this Glee.
        Look about, count your number,
        Singing will keep us from crazy slumber;
        1, 2, and 3, so many there be that can sing,
        The rest for wine may ring:
        Here is _Tom_, _Jack_ and _Harry_;
        Sing away and doe not tarry,
      Merrily now let’s sing, carouse, and tiple,
      Here’s _Bristow_ milk, come suck this niple,
      There’s a fault sir, never halt Sir, before a criple.


  28. Jog on, jog on the Foot path-way,
        And merrily hen’t the stile-a;
      Your merry heart go’es all the day,
        Your sad tires in a mile-a.
      Your paltry mony bags of Gold,
        What need have we to stare-for,
      When little or nothing soon is told,
        And we have the less to care-for?
      Cast care away, let sorrow cease, [p. 74.]
        A Figg for Melancholly;
      Let’s laugh and sing, or if you please,
        We’l frolick with sweet _Dolly_.


_Translated out of Greek._

  30. The parcht _Earth_ drinks the _Rain_,
      _Trees_ drink it up again;
      The _Sea_ the _Ayre_ doth quaff,
      _Sol_ drinks the _Ocean_ off;
      And when that Health is done,
      Pale _Cinthia_ drinks the sun:
      Why, then, d’ye stem my drinking Tyde,
      Striving to make me sad, I will, I will be mad.

[p. 75.]


  31. Fly, Boy, Fly, Boy, to the Cellars bottom:
      View well your Quills and Bung, Sir.
      Draw Wine to preserve the Lungs Sir;
      Not rascally Wine to Rot u’m.
      If the Quill runs foul,
      Be a trusty soul, and cane it;
      For the Health is such
      An ill drop will much profane it.


  32. A Man of _Wales_, a litle before _Easter_
      Ran on his Hostes score for Cheese a teaster:
      His Hostes chalkt it up behind the doore,
      And said, For Cheese (good Sir) Come pay the score:
      Cod’s _Pluternails_ (quoth he) what meaneth these?
      What dost thou think her knows not Chalk from Cheese?


  33. Drink, drink, all you that think
      To cure your souls of sadnesse;
      Take up your Sack, ’tis all you lack,
      All worldly care is madness.
      Let Lawyers plead, and Schollars read,
      And Sectaries still conjecture,
          Yet we can be as merry as they,
      With a Cup of _Apollo’s_ nectar.

      Let gluttons feed, and souldiers bleed,
      And fight for reputation,
      Physicians be fools to fill up close stools,
      And cure men by purgation:
      Yet we have a way far better than they,
      Which _Galen_ could never conjecture,
          To cure the head, nay quicken the dead,
      With a cup of _Apollo’s_ Nectar.

      We do forget we are in debt
      When we with liquor are warmed;
      We dare out-face the Sergeant’s Mace, [p. 76.]
      And Martiall Troops though armed.
      The _Swedish_ King much honour did win,
      And valiant was as _Hector_;
          Yet we can be as valiant as he,
      With a cup of _Apollo’s_ Nectar.

      Let the worlds slave his comfort have,
      And hug his hoards of treasure,
      Till he and his wish meet both in a dish,
      So dies a miser in pleasure.
      ’Tis not a fat farm our wishes can charm,
      We scorn this greedy conjecture;
          ’Tis a health to our friend, to whom we commend
      This cup of _Apollo’s_ Nectar.

      The Pipe and the Pot, are our common shot,
      Wherewith we keep a quarter;
      Enough for to choak with fire and smoak
      The Great _Turk_ and the _Tartar_.
      Our faces red, our ensignes spread,
      _Apollo_ is our Protector:
          To rear up the Scout, to run in and out,
      And drink up this cup of Nectar.


  34. Welcome, welcome again to thy wits,
          This is a Holy day:
      I’le have no plots nor melancholly fits,
      But merrily passe the time away:
          They are mad that are sad;
          Be rul’d, by me,
      And none shall be so merry as we;
      The Kitchin shall catch cold no more,
      And we’l have no key to the Buttery dore,
          The fidlers shall sing,
          And the house shall ring,
          And the world shall see
            What a merry couple,
              Merry couple,
                We will be.



Thanks be to the worthy bookseller, George Thomason,[8] for prudence in
laying aside the “tall copy” of this amusing book, from which we make
our transcript of text and engraving. Probably it did not exceed two
shillings, in price; (at least, we have seen that Anthony à Wood’s
uncropt copy of “_Merry Drollery_,” 1661, is marked in contemporary
manuscript at “1s. 3d.,” each part). The title says:—

  _These witty Poems, though sometime [they]_
      _may seem to halt on crutches,_
  _Yet they’l all merrily please you_
      _for your charge, which not much is._

Who was the “N. D.” to whose light labours we are indebted for the
compounding of these “Witty Ballads, jovial Songs, and merry Catches” in
Pills warranted to cure the ills of Melancholy, had not hitherto been
ascertained[9]; or whether he wrote anything beside the above couplet,
and the humorous address To the Reader, beginning,

  _There’s no Purge ’gainst ~Melancholy~,_
  _But with ~Bacchus~ to be jolly:_
  _All else are but dreggs of Folly, &c._ (p. 111.)

As we suspected (flowing though his verse might be), he was more of
bookseller than ballad-maker. His injunctions for us to “be wise and
_buy_, not _borrow_,” had a terribly tradesman-like sound. Yet he was
right. Book-borrowing is an evil practice; and book-lending is not much
better. Woeful chasms, in what should be the serried ranks of our Library
companions, remind us pathetically, in too many cases (book-cases,
especially,) of some Coleridge-like “lifter” of Lambs, who made a raid
upon our borders, and carried off plunder, sometimes an unique quarto,
on other days an irrecoverable duodecimo: With Schiller, we bewail the

  “_The beautiful is vanished, and returns not._”

The title of “_Pills to Purge Melancholy_” was by Playford and Tom
D’Urfey afterwards employed, and kept alive before the public, in many a
volume from before 1684 until 1720, if not later. Whether “N. D.” himself
were the “Mer[cury] Melancholicus” whose name appears as printer, for
the book to be “sold in London and Westminster,” is to us not doubtful.
By April 18, 1661,[10] Thomason had secured his copy, and there need
be no question that it was for sport, and not through any fear of rigid
censorship or malicious pettifogging interference by the law, that,
instead of printer’s name, this pseudonym or nickname was adopted.

We believe that the mystery shrouding the personality of “N. D.” can be
dispelled. The discovery helps us in more ways than one, and connects
the _Antidote against Melancholy_, of 1661, in an intelligible and
legitimate manner, with much jocular literature of later date. To us
it seems clear that N. D. was no other than [HE]N[RY] [PLAYFOR]D. The
triplets addressed in 1661 To the Reader, beginning “There’s no purge
’gainst Melancholy,” are repeated at commencement of the 1684 edition of
“_Wit and Mirth; or, an Antidote to Melancholy_” (the third edition of
“_Pills to Purge Melancholy_”) where they are entitled “The Stationer to
the Reader,” and signed, not “N. D.,” but “H. P.;” for Henry Playford,
whose name appears in full as publisher “near the Temple Church.” Thus,
the repetition or alteration of the original title, “_An Antidote against
Melancholy, made up in Pills_,” or, as the head-line puts it, “_Pills to
Purge Melancholy_,” was, in all probability, a perfectly business-like
reproduction of what Playford had himself originated. What relation
Henry Playford was to John Playford, the publisher of “_Select Ayres_,”
“_Choice Ayres_,” 1652, &c., we are not yet certain. Thirteen of the
longest and most important poems from the 1661 _Antidote_[11] re-appear
in that of 1684, beside four of the Catches. Indeed, the transmission of
many of these Lyrics (by the editions of 1699, 1700, 1706, 1707) to the
six volume edition, superintended by Tom D’Urfey in 1719-20, is unbroken;
though we have still to find the edition published between 1661 and 1684.

But even the 1661 _Antidote_ is not entitled to bear the credit of
originating the phrase: _Pills to purge Melancholy_. So far as we know,
by personal search, this belongs to Robert Hayman, thirty years earlier.
Among his _Quodlibets_, 1628, on p. 74, we find the following epigram:—

    “To one of the elders of the Sanctified Parlour of Amsterdam.

      _Though thou maist call my merriments, my folly,_
      _They are my Pills to purge my melancholy;_
      _They would purge thine too, wert thou not foole-holy._”


(_Merry Drollery, Compleat_, p. 312, 395; _Antidote ag. Mel._, p. 16.)

  “Before we came in we heard a great shouting,
    And all that were in it look’d madly;
  But some were on Bull-back, some dancing a morris,
    And some singing Arthur-a-Bradley.”

  —(ROBIN HOOD’S BIRTH, &c. Printed by Wm. Onlen, about 1650.
  In _Roxburghe Collection of Black-Letter Ballads_, i., 360.)

So long ago as the Editor can remember, the words and music of
“Arthur o’ Bradley’s Wedding” rang pleasantly in his ears. The jovial
rollicking strain prepared him to feel interest in the bridal attire of
Shakespeare’s Petruchio; who, not improbably, when about to be married
unto “Kate the Curst,” borrowed the details of costume and demeanour
from this popular hero of song. Or _vice versa_. To this day, the
_lilt_ of the tune holds a fascination, and we sometimes behold, under
favourable planetary aspects, the long procession of dancing couples who
have, during three centuries, footed the grass, the rashes, or chalked
floor, to that jig-melody, accompanied by the bagpipes or fiddle of
some rustic Crowdero. Can it be possible? Yes, the line is headed by the
venerable Queen Elizabeth, holding up her fardingale with tips of taper
fingers, and looking preternaturally grim, to show that dancing is a
serious undertaking for a virgin sovereign (especially when the Spanish
Ambassador watches her, with comments of wonder that the Head of the
Church can dance at all). Yet is there a sly under-glance that tells
of fun, to those who are her Majesty’s familiars. Her “Cousin James”
is not the neatest figure as a partner (which accounts for her having
chosen Leicester instead, let alone chronology); but we see him, close
behind, with Anne of Denmark, twirling his crooked little legs about in
obedience to the music, until his round hose swell like hemispheres on
school-maps. “Baby Charles and Steenie,” half mockingly, follow after
with the Infanta. We did once catch a glimpse of handsome Carr and
his wicked paramour, Frances Howard, trying to join the Terpsichorean
revellers; but, beautiful as they both were, it was felt necessary to
exclude them, “for the honour of Arthur o’ Bradley,” since they possessed
none of their own. What a gallant assemblage of poets and dramatists
covered the buckle and snapped their fingers gleefully to the merry
notes! Foremost among them was rare Ben Jonson (unable to resist clothing
Adam Overdo in Arthur’s own mantle); and honest Thomas Dekker “followed
after in a dream” (as had been memorably printed on our seventh page
of _Choyce Drollery_), thinking of Bellafront’s repentance, and her
quotation of the well-known burden, “O brave Arthur o’ Bradley, then!” A
score of poets are junketting with merry milkmaids and Wives of Windsor.
Richard Brathwaite (the creator of Drunken Barnaby) is not absent from
among them; although he sees, outside the circle that for a moment has
formed around a Maypole, an angry crowd of schismatic Puritans, who are
scowling at them with malignant eyes, and denunciations misquoted from
Scripture. Many a fair Precisian, nevertheless, yields to the honeyed
pleading of a be-love-locked Cavalier, and the irresistible charms of
“Arthur o’ Bradley, ho!” showing the prettiest pair of ankles, and the
most delightful mixture of bashfulness and enjoyment; until the Roundhead
Buff-coats prove too numerous, and whisk her off to a conventicle, where,
the sexes sitting widely apart, for aught we know, the crop-eared rout
sing unpoetic versions of the Psalmist to the tune of Arthur o’ Bradley,
“godlified” and eke expurgated.

Cromwell, we know, loved music, withal, and it is not unlikely that those
two ladies are his daughters, whom we behold dancing somewhat stiffly
in John Hingston’s music-chamber; Mrs. Claypole and her sister, Mrs
Rich: there are L’Estrange, who fiddles to them, and Old Noll, smiling
pleasantly, though the tune be Arthur o’ Bradley. Our Second Charles
(not yet “Restored”) is also dancing to it, at the Hague (as we see
in Janssen’s Windsor picture), with the Princess Palatine Elizabeth,
and such a bevy of bright faces round them, that we lose our heart
entirely. Can we not see him again—crowned now, and self-acknowledged as
“Old Rowley”—at one of the many balls in Whitehall recorded by Samuel
Pepys,[12] entering gaily into all the mirth with that grave, swarthy
face of his; not noticing the pouts of Catherine, who sits neglected
while The Castlemaine laughs loudly, the fair Stewart simpers, and
the little spaniels bark or caper through the palace, snapping at the
dancers’ heels? Be sure that pretty Nelly and saucy Knipp were also well
acquainted with the music of “rare Arthur o’ Bradley,” as indeed were
thousands of the play-goers to whom the former once sold oranges.

And lower ranks delighted in it. Pierce, the Bagpiper, is himself the
central figure, when we look again, “with cheeks as big as a mitre,” such
time as that table-full of Restoration revellers (whom we catch sight of
in our frontispiece to the _Antidote_, 1661) are beginning to shake a toe
in honour of the music.

So it continues for two centuries more, with all varieties of costume
and feature. Certain are we that plump Sir Richard Steele whistled
the tune, and Dean Swift gave the Dublin ballad-singer a couple of
thirteens for singing it. Dr. Johnson grunted an accompaniment whenever
he heard the melody, and James Boswell insisted on dancing to it, though
a little “overtaken,” and got his sword entangled betwixt his legs,
which cost him a fall and a plastered head-piece, by no means for the
only time on record. It is reported that good old George the Third
was seen endeavouring to persuade Queen Charlotte to accompany him
on the Spinnet, while he set their numerous olive-branches jigging it
delightedly “_for the honour of ~Arthur~ o’ ~Bradley~_.” But whenever
Dr. John Wolcot was reported to be prowling near at hand, with Peter
Pindaresque eyes, the motion ceased. Well was it loved by honest Joseph
Ritson, _impiger, iracundus inexorabilis, acer_—better than vegetable
diet and eccentric spelling, or the flagellation of inexact antiquarian
Bishops. We ourselves may have beheld him in high glee perusing the
black-letter ballad, and rectifying its corrupt text by the _Antidote
against Melancholy’s_. How lustily he skipped, shouting meanwhile the
burden of “_brave ~Arthur~ o’ ~Bradley~!_” so that unconsciously he
joined the ten-mile train of dancers. They are still winding around us,
some in a Nineteenth-Century garb (a little tattered, but it adds to the
picturesqueness), blithe Hop-pickers of West-Bridge Deanery. There are a
few New Zealanders, we understand, waiting to join the throng, (including
Macaulay’s own particular circumnavigating meditator, yet unborn); so
that as long as the world wags no welcome may be lacking to the mirth and
melody, jigging and joustling,

  “_For the honour of ~Arthur~ o’ ~Bradley~,_
  _O rare ~Arthur~ o’ ~Bradley~,_
  _O brave ~Arthur~ o’ ~Bradley~,_
  _~Arthur~ o’ ~Bradley~. O!_”

Having relieved our feelings, for once, we resume the sober duties of
Annotation in a chastened spirit:—

In _Merry Drollery Compleat_, Reprint (Appendix, p. 401), we gave the
full quotation from a Sixteenth Century Interlude, _The Contract of
Marriage between Wit and Wisdom_, the point being this:—

  “_For the honour of ~Artrebradley~,_
  _This age would make me swear madly_!”

Arthur o’ Bradley is mentioned by Thomas Dekker, near the end of the
first part of his _Honest Whore_, 1604; when Bellafront, assuming to be
mad, hears that Mattheo is to marry her, she exclaims—

  “_Shall he? O brave ~Arthur~ of ~Bradley~, then?_”

In Ben Jonson’s _Bartholomew Fair_, 1614, (which covers the Puritans
with ridicule, for the delight of James 1st.), Act ii. Scene 1, when
Adam Overdo, the Sectary, is disguised in a “garded coat” as Arthur o’
Bradley, to gesticulate outside a booth, Mooncalf salutes him thus:—“O
Lord! do you not know him, Mistress? _’tis mad ~Arthur~ of ~Bradley~ that
makes the orations_.—Brave master, old Arthur of Bradley, how do you
do? Welcome to the Fair! When shall we hear you again, to handle your
matters, _with your back against a booth_, ha?”

In Richard Brathwaite’s _Strappado for the Diuell_, 1615, p. 225 (in
a long poem, containing notices of Wakefield, Bradford, and Kendall,
addressed “to all true-bred Northerne Sparks, of the generous Society of
the Cottoneers,” &c.) is the following reference to this tune, and to
other two, viz. “Wilson’s Delight,” and “Mal Dixon’s Round:”

  “_So each (through peace of conscience) rapt with pleasure_
  _Shall ioifully begin to dance his measure._
  _One footing actiuely ~Wilson’s~ delight, ..._
  _The fourth is chanting of his Notes so gladly,_
  _Keeping the tune for th’ honour of ~Arthura Bradly~;_
  _The ~5[th]~ so pranke he scarce can stand on ground,_
  _Asking who’le sing with him ~Mal Dixon’s~ round._”

(By the way: The same author, Richard Brathwaite, in his amusing
_Shepherds Tales_, 1621, p. 211, mentions as other Dance-tunes,

  _Roundelayes_, || _~Irish~-hayes,_
  _Cogs and rongs and ~Peggie Ramsie~,_
  _Spaniletto_ || _The Venetto,_
  _~John~ come kisse me, ~Wilson’s~ Fancie._)

Again, Thomas Gayton writes concerning the hero:—“’Tis not alwaies sure
that _’tis merry in hall when beards Wag all_, for these men’s beards
wagg’d as fast as they could tag ’em, but mov’d no mirth at all: They
were verifying that song of—

  _Heigh, brave ~Arthur~ o’ ~Bradley~,_
  _A beard without hair looks madly._”

         (_Festivous Notes on Don Quixot_, 1654, p. 141.)

On pp. 540, 604, of William Chappell’s excellent work, _The Popular Music
of the Olden Time_, are given two tunes, one for the _Antidote_ version,
and the other for the modern, as sung by Taylor, “Come neighbours, and
listen a while.” He quotes the two lines from Gayton, and also this from
Wm. Wycherley’s _Gentleman Dancing Master_, 1673, Act i, Sc. 2, where
Gerrard says:—“Sing him ‘_Arthur of Bradley_,’ or ‘_I am the Duke of

It is quite evident, from such passages, that during a long time a
proverbial and popular character attached to this noisy personage: such
has not yet passed away. The earliest complete imprint of “Arthur o’
Bradley” as a Song, (from a printed original, of 1656, beginning “_All
you that desire to merry be_,”) in our present APPENDIX, Part iv. Quite
distinct from this hitherto unnoticed examplar, not already reprinted, is
“_Saw you not ~Pierce~, the piper_,” &c., the ballad reproduced by us,
from _Merry Drollery_, 1661, Part 2nd., p. 124, (and ditto, _Compleat_
1670, 1691, p. 312); which agrees with the _Antidote against Melancholy_,
same date, 1661, p. 16. More than a Century later, an inferior rendering
was common, printed on broadsheets. It was mentioned, in 1797, by
Joseph Ritson, as being a “much more modern ballad [than the _Antidote_
version] upon this popular subject, in the same measure intitled _Arthur
o’ Bradley_, and beginning ‘All in the merry month of May.’” (_Robin
Hood_, 1797, ii. 211.) Of this we already gave two verses, (in Appendix
to _M. Drollery C._, p. 400), but as we believe the ballad has not been
reprinted in this century, we may give all that is extant, from the only
copy within reach, of ARTHUR O’ BRADLEY:—

  “_All in the merry month of May,_
  _The maids [they will be gay,_
  _For] a May-pole they will have, &c._”

          (See the present Appendix, Part iv.)

In this, doubtless, we detect two versions, garbed together. What is
now the final verse is merely a variation of the sixth: probably the
broadsheet-printer could not meet with a genuine eighth verse. Robert
Bell denounced the whole as “a miserable composition” (even as he had
declared against the amatory Lyrics of Charles the Second’s time): but
then, he might have added, with Goldsmith, “My Bear dances to none but
the werry genteelest of tunes.”

Far superior to this was the “Arthur o’ Bradley’s Wedding:

“_Come, neighbours, and listen awhile, If ever you wished to smile_,”
&c., which was sung by ... Taylor, a comic actor, about the beginning of
this century. It is not improbable that he wrote or adapted it, availing
himself of such traditional scraps as he could meet with. Two copies of
it, duplicate, on broadsheets, are in the Douce Collection at Oxford,
vol. iv. pp. 18, 19. A copy, also, in J. H. Dixon’s _Bds. and Sgs. of the
Peasantry_, Percy Soc., 1845, vol. xvii. (and in R. B.’s _Annotated Ed.
B. P._, p. 138.)

There is still another “Arthur o’ Bradley,” but not much can, or need, be
said in its favour; except that it contains only three verses. Yet even
these are more than two which can be spared. Its only tolerable lines are
borrowed from the Roxburghe Ballad. It is the _nadir_ of Bradleyism, and
has not even a title, beyond the burden “_O rare ~Arthur~ o’ ~Bradley~,
O!_” Let us, briefly, be in at the death: although Arthur makes not a
Swan-like end, with the help of his Catnach poet. It begins thus:

  _’Twas in the sweet month of May, I walked out to take the air,_
  _My Father he died one day, and he left me his son and heir;_
  _He left me a good warm house, that wanted only a thatch,_
  _A strong oak door to my chamber, that only wanted a latch;_
  _He left me a rare old cow, I wish he’d have left me a sow,_
  _A cock that in fighting was shy, and a horse with a sharp wall eye, &c._

                              (_Universal Songster_, 1826, i. 368.)

Even Ophelia could not ask, after Arthur sinking so low, “And will he not
come again?”

                                                                 J. W. E.

_September, 1875._

[So far as possible, to give completeness to our Reprint of _Westminster
Drollery_ of 1671-2, and _Merry Drollery, Compleat_, 1670-1691, we now
add the Extra Songs belonging to the former work, edition 1674; and
to the latter, in its earlier edition, 1661: with their respective


                              Or, A Choice
                              of the Newest
                              SONGS & POEMS
                                 BOTH AT
                           Court and Theaters.

                          A Person of Quality.

                   _The third Edition, with many more

          Printed for _H. Brome_, at the _Gun_ in St. _Paul’s_
                     Church Yard, near the West End.




Edition 1674.

[p. 111.]

_A Song._

  1. So wretched are the sick of Love,
     No Herb has vertue to remove
           The growing ill:
                   But still,
     The more we Remedies oppose
     The Feaver more malignant grows.
           Doubts do but add unto desire,
           Like Oyl that’s thrown upon the fire,
           Which serves to make the flame aspire;
                   And not t’ extinguish it:
     Love has its trembling, and its burning fit.

  2. Fruition which the sick propose [p. 112.]
     To end, and recompence their woes,
           But turns them o’re
                   To more.
     And curing one, does but prepare
     A new, perhaps a greater care.
           Enjoyment even in the chaste,
           Pleases, not satisfies the taste,
           And licens’d Love the worst can fast.
                   Such is the Lovers state,
     Pining and pleas’d, alike unfortunate.

  3. _Sabina_ and _Camilla_ share
     An equal interest in care,
           Fear hath each brest
     In different Fortunes, one pure flame
     Makes their unhappiness the same.
           Love begets fear, fear grief creates,
           Passion still passion animates,
           Love will be love in all estates:
                   His power still is one
     Whether in hope or in possession.

[p. 113.]

_A Song._

  1. To Arms! to Arms! the Heroes cry,
     A glorious Death, or Victory.
          Beauty and Love, although combin’d,
            And each so powerful alone,
          Cannot prevail against a mind
            Bound up in resolution.
          Tears their weak influence vainly prove,
          Nothing the daring breast can move
     Honour is blind, and deaf, ev’n deaf to Love.

  2. The Field! the Field! where Valour bleeds,
     Spurn’d into dust by barbed steeds,
          Instead of wanton Beds of Down
            Is now the Scene where they must try,
          To overthrow, or be o’rethrown;
            Bravely to overcome, or dye.
          Honour in her interest sits above
          What Beauty, Prayers, or tears can move:
     Were there no Honour, there would be no Love.

[p. 114.]

_A Song._

  1. Beauty that it self can kill,
     Through the finest temper’d steel,
        Can those wounds she makes endure,
            And insult it o’re the brave,
        Since she knows a certain cure,
            When she is dispos’d to save:
     But when a Lover bleeding lies,
            Wounded by other Arms,
            And that she sees those harms,
        For which she knows no remedies;
        Then Beauty Sorrows livery wears,
        And whilst she melts away in tears,
            Drooping in Sorrow shews
     Like Roses overcharg’d with morning dews.

  2. Nor do women, though they wear
     The most tender character,
        Suffer in this case alone:
            Hearts enclos’d with Iron Walls,
        In humanity must groan
            When a noble Hero falls.
     Pitiless courage would not be [p. 115.]
            An honour, but a shame;
            Nor bear the noble name
        Of valour, but barbarity;
        The generous even in success
        Lament their enemies distress:
            And scorn it should appear
     Who are the Conquer’d, with the Conqueror.

_A Song._

  1. The young, the fair, the chaste, the good,
     The sweet _Camilla_, in a flood
            Of her own Crimson lies
            A bloody, bloody sacrifice
     To Death and man’s inhumane cruelties.
        Weep Virgins till your sorrow swells
        In tears above the Ivory Cells
            That guard those Globes of light;
        Drown, drown those beauties of your eyes.
        Beauty should mourn, when beauty dies;
            And make a general night,
     To pay her innocence its Funeral rite.

  2. Death since his Empire first begun, [p. 116.]
     So foul a conquest never won,
            Nor yet so fair a prize:
            And had he had a heart, or eyes,
     Her beauties would have charm’d his cruelties.
        Even Savage Beasts will Beauty spare,
        Chaft Lions fawn upon the fair; [Fierce lions]
            Nor dare offend the chaste:
        But vitious man, that sees and knows
        The mischiefs his wild fury does,
            Humours his passions haste,
        To prove ungovern’d man the greatest beast.

_A Song._

  1. How frailty makes us to our wrong
          Fear, and be loth to dye,
     When Life is only dying long
          And Death the remedy!
          We shun eternity,
     And still would gravel her beneath, [_Scil._, grovel]
          Though still in woe and strife,
     When Life’s the path that leads to Death,
          And Death the door to Life.

  2. The Fear of Death is the disease [p. 117.]
          Makes the poor patient smart;
     Vain apprehensions often freeze
          The vitals in the heart,
          Without the dreaded Dart.
     When fury rides on pointed steel
          Death’s fear the heart doth seize,
     Whilst in that very fear we feel
          A greater sting than his.

  3. But chaste _Camilla’s_ vertuous fear
          Was of a noble kind,
     Not of her end approaching near
          But to be left behind,
          From her dear Love disjoyn’d;
     When Death in courtesie decreed,
          To make the fair his prize,
     And by one cruelty her freed
          From humane cruelties.


  Thus heav’n does his will disguise,
  To scourge our curiosities,
  When too inquisitive we grow
  Of what we are forbid to know.
  Fond humane nature that will try [p. 118.]
  To sound th’ Abiss of Destiny!
  Alas! what profit can arise
  From those forbidden scrutinies,
  When Oracles what they foretel
  In such Ænigma’s still conceal,
  That self indulging man still makes
  Of deepest truths most sad mistakes!
  Or could our frailty comprehend
  The reach those riddles do intend:
  What boots it us when we have done,
  To foresee ills we cannot shun?
  But ’tis in man a vain pretence,
  To know or prophesie events,
  Which only execute, and move,
  By a dependence from above.
  ’Tis all imposture to deceive
  The foolish and inquisitive,
  Since none foresee what shall befal,
  But providence that governs all.
  Reason wherewith kind Heav’n has blest
  His creature man above the rest,
  Will teach humanity to know
  All that it should aspire unto;
  And whatsoever fool relies
  On false deceiving prophesies,
  Striving by conduct to evade
  The harms they threaten, or perswade,
  Too frequently himself does run [p. 119.]
  Into the danger he would shun,
  And pulls upon himself the woe
  Fate meant he should much later know.
  By such delusions vertue strays
  Out of those honourable ways
  That lead unto that glorious end,
  To which the noble ever bend.
  Whereas if vertue were the guide,
  Mens minds would then be fortified
  With constancy, that would declare
  Against supineness, and despair.
  We should events with patience wait,
  And not despise, nor fear our Fate.

[p. 120.]



_The Quakers Madrigall In Rime Dogrell_.

      The Quaker and his Brats,
      Are born with their Hats,
      Which a point with two Taggs,
      Ty’s fast to their Craggs,
      Nor King nor Kesar,
      To such Knaves as these are,
  Do signifie more than a Tinker.
      His rudeness and pride
      So puffs up his hide
  That He’s drunk though he be no drinker.


        _Now since Mayor and Justice_
        _Are assured that thus ’tis_
    _To abate their encrease and redundance_
        _Let us send them to WICKHAM_
        _For there’s one will kick ’um_
    _Into much better manners by abundance._

      Once the Clown at his entry [p. 121.]
      Kist his golls to the Gentry:
      When the Lady took upon her,
      ’Twas God save your Honor:
      But now Lord and Pesant,
      Do make but one messe on’t
  Then farewel distinction ’twixt Plowman and Knight.
      If the world be thus tost
      The old Proverb is crost,
  For Joan’s as good as my Lady in th’ Light.


        _Now since Mayor and Justice, &c._

      ’Tis the Gentry that Lulls ’um
      While the Quaker begulls ’um:
      They dandle ’um in their Lapps,
      Who should strike of[f] their Capps;
      And make ’um stand bare
      Both to Justice and Mayor,
  Till when ’twill nere be faire weather;
      For now the proud Devel
      Hath brought forth this Level
  None Knows who and who is together.

        _Now since Mayor and Justice, &c._

      Now silence and listen [p. 122.]
      Thou shalt hear how they Christen:
      Mother Midnight comes out
      With the Babe in a Clout,
      Tis Rachell you must know tis,
      Good friends all take notice,
  Tis a name from the Scripture arising.
      And thus the dry dipper
      (Twere a good deed to whip her)
  Makes a Christning without a Baptizing.

        _Now since Mayor and Justice, &c._

      Their wedlocks are many,
      But Marriages not any,
      For they and their dull Sows,
      Like the Bulls and the mull Cows,
  Do couple in brutify’d fashion:
      But still the Official,
      Declares that it is all
  Matrimoniall Fornication.

        _Now since Mayor and Justice, &c._

      Their Lands and their Houses
      W’ont fall to their Spouses:
      They cannot appoint her
      One Turff for a Joynter.
      His son and his daughter, [p. 123.]
      Will repent it hereafter;
  For when the Estate is divided;
      For the Parents demerit
      Some Kinsman will inherit;
  Why then let them marry as I did.

        _But since Mayor and Justice, &c._

      Now since these mad Nations
      Do cheat their relations,
      Pray what better hap then
      Can we that are Chap men,
      Expect from their Canting,
      The sighing and panting?
  We are they use the house with a steeple,
      And then they may Cozen
      All us by the Dozen;
  For Israel may spoyle Pharaohs people.

        _Now since Mayor and Justice, &c._

      The Quaker who before
      Did rant and did roare;
      Great thrift will now tell yee on.
      But it tends to Rebellion:
      For his tipling being don,
      He hath bought him a gun
  Which hee saves from his former vain spending.
      O be drunk agen _Quaker_, [p. 124.]
      Take thy Canniken and shake her,
  For thou art the worse for the mending.

        _Now since Mayor and Justice, &c._

      Then looke we about,
      And give them a Rout,
      Before they Encumber
      The Land with their number:
      There can be no peace in
      These Vermins encreasing;
  For tis plaine to all prudent beholders,
      That while we neglect,
      They do but expect
  A new head to their old mans Shoulders.

        _Now since Mayor and Justice_
        _Are assured that thus ’tis:_
    _To abate their encrease and redundance_
        _Let us send them to WICKHAM_
        _For there’s one will Kick ’um_
    _Into much better manners by abundance._

[Here ends the 1674 edition; for account of which, and the 1661 _Merry
Drollery_, see our present _Appendix_, Parts Third and Fourth.]


                              A COLLECTION

                               { Jovial Poems,
                           Of  { Merry Songs,
                               { Witty Drolleries.

                        Intermixed with Pleasant

                             The First Part.

                              Collected by
                       _W.N._ _C.B._ _R.S._ _J.G._
                             Lovers of Wit.

                                [1s. 3d.]

                Printed by _J. W._ for _P. H._ and are to
            be Sold at the _New Exchange, Westminster_-Hall,
                        Fleet Street, and _Pauls_
                            Church-Yard. [May



Merry Drollery, 1661:

(_Omitted from the Editions of 1670, 1691, when New Songs were
substituted for them._)


[fol. 2.]

_A Puritan._

  A Puritan of late,
  And eke a holy Sister,
  A Catechizing sate,
  And fain he would have kist her
          For his Mate.

  But she a Babe of grace,
  A Child of reformation,
  Thought kissing a disgrace,
  A Limbe of prophanation
          In that place.

  He swore by yea and nay [fol. 2b.]
  He would have no denial,
  The Spirit would it so,
  She should endure a tryal
          Ere she go.

  Why swear you so, quoth she?
  Indeed, my holy Brother,
  You might have forsworn be
  Had it been to another[,]
          Not to me.

  He laid her on the ground,
  His Spirits fell a ferking,
  Her Zeal was in a sound, [i.e. swoon,]
  He edified her Merkin
          Upside down.

  And when their leave they took,
  And parted were asunder,
  My Muse did then awake,
  And I turn’d Ballad-monger
          For their sake.

[page 11.]

_Loves Dream._

  I dreamt my Love lay in her bed,
  It was my chance to take her,
  Her arms and leggs abroad were spread,
  She slept, I durst not wake her;
  O pitty it were, that one so rare
  Should crown her head with willow:
  The Tresses of her golden hair
  Did crown her lovely Pillow. [_al. lect._, Did kisse]

  Me thought her belly was a hill
  Much like a mount of pleasure,
  At foot thereof there springs a well,
  The depth no man can measure;
  About the pleasant Mountain head
  There grows a lofty thicket,
  Whither two beagles travelled
  To rouze a lively Pricket.

  They hunted him with chearful cry
  About that pleasant Mountain,
  Till he with heat was forc’d to fly
  And slip into that Fountain;
  The Dogs they follow’d to the brink,
  And there at him they baited:
  They plunged about and would not sink, [p. 12.]
  His coming out they waited.

  Then forth he came as one half lame,
  All very faint and tired,
  Betwixt her legs he hung his head,
  As heavy heart desired;
  My dogs then being refresht again,
  And she of sleep bereaved,
  She dreamt she had me in her arms,
  And she was not deceived.

_The good Old Cause._

  Now _Lambert’s_ sunk, and valiant M—— [_Monk_]
      Does ape his General _Cromwel_,
  And _Arthur’s_ Court, cause time is short,
      Does rage like devils from hell;
  Let’s mark the fate and course of State,
      Who rises when t’other is sinking,
  And believe when this is past
      ’Twill be our turn at last
  To bring the Good Old Cause by drinking.

  First, red nos’d _Nol_ he swallowed all,
      His colour shew’d he lov’d it:
  But _Dick_ his Son, as he were none,
      Gav’t off, and hath reprov’d it;
  But that his foes made bridge of’s nose,
      And cry’d him down for a Protector,
  Proving him to be a fool that would undertake to rule
      And not drink and fight like _Hector_.

  The Grecian lad he drank like mad, [p. 13.]
      Minding no work above it;
  And _Sans question_ kill’d _Ephestion_
      Because he’d not approve it;
  He got command where God had land,
      And like a _Maudlin_ Yonker,
  When he tippled all and wept, he laid him down to sleep,
      Having no more Worlds to conquer.

  Rump-Parliament would needs invent
      An Oath of abjuration,
  But Obedience and Allegiance are now come into fashion:
      Then here’s a boul with heart and soul
  To _Charles_, and let all say Amen to ’t;
      Though they brought the Father down
  From a triple Kingdom Crown,
      We’ll drink the Son up again to ’t.

[p. 14.]

_A Song._

  Riding to _London_, on _Dunstable_ way
  I met with a Maid on _Midsummer_ day,
  Her Eyes they did sparkle like Stars in the sky,
  Her face it was fair, and her forehead was high:
  The more I came to her, the more I did view her,
  The better I lik’d her pretty sweet face, [p. 15.]
  I could not forbear her, but still I drew near her,
  And then I began to tell her my case:

  Whither walk’st thou, my pretty sweet soul?
  She modestly answer’d to _Hockley-i’th’-hole_.
  I ask’d her her business; she had a red cheek,
  She told me, she went a poor service to seek;
  I said, it was pitty she should leave the City,
  And settle her self in a Country Town;
  She said it was certain it was her hard fortune
  To go up a maiden, and so to come down.

  With that I alighted, and to her I stept,
  I took her by th’ hand, and this pretty maid wept;
  Sweet[,] weep not, quoth I: I kist her soft lip;
  I wrung her by th’ hand, and my finger she nipt;
  So long there I woo’d her, such reasons I shew’d her,
  That she my speeches could not controul,
  But cursied finely, and got up behind me,
  And back she rode with me to _Hockley-i’-th’-hole_.

  When I came to _Hockley_ at the sign of the Cock,
  By [a]lighting I chanced to see her white smock,
  It lay so alluring upon her round knee,
  I call’d for a Chamber immediately;
  I hugg’d her, I tugg’d her, I kist her, I smugg’d her,
  And gently I laid her down on a bed,
  With nodding and pinking, with sighing & winking,
  She told me a tale of her Maidenhead.

  While she to me this story did tell,
  I could not forbear, but on her I fell;
  I tasted the pleasure of sweetest delight, [p. 16.]
  We took up our lodging, and lay there all night;
  With soft arms she roul’d me, and oft times told me,
  She loved me deerly, even as her own soul:
  But on the next morrow we parted with sorrow,
  And so I lay with her at _Hockley-i’th’-hole_.

[p. 27.]

_Maidens delight._

  A Young man of late, that lackt a mate,
  And courting came unto her,
  With Cap, and Kiss, and sweet Mistris,
  But little could he do her;
  Quoth she, my friend, let kissing end,
  Where with you do me smother,
  And run at Ring with t’other thing:
            A little o’ th’ t’on with t’other.

  Too much of ought is good for nought,
  Then leave this idle kissing;
  Your barren suit will yield no fruit
  If the other thing be missing:
  As much as this a man may kiss
  His sister or his mother;
  He that will speed must give with need
            A little o’ th’ t’on with t’other.

  Who bids a Guest unto a feast,
  To sit by divers dishes,
  They please their mind untill they find
  Change, please each Creatures wishes;
  With beak and bill I have my fill,
  With measure running over;
  The Lovers dish now do I wish,
            A little o’ th’ t’on with t’other.

  To gull me thus, like _Tantalus_,
  To make me pine with plenty,
  With shadows store, and nothing more, [p. 28.]
  Your substance is so dainty;
  A fruitless tree is like to thee,
  Being but a kissing lover,
  With leaves joyn fruit, or else be mute;
            A little o’ th’ t’on with t’other.

  Sharp joyn’d with flat, no mirth to that;
  A low note and a higher,
  Where Mean and Base keeps time and place,
  Such musick maids desire:
  All of one string doth loathing bring,
  Change, is true Musicks Mother,
  Then leave my face, and sound the base,
            A little o’ th’ t’on with t’other.

  The golden mine lies just between [? golden mean]
  The high way and the lower;
  He that wants wit that way to hit
  Alas[!] hath little power;
  You’l miss the clout if that you shoot
  Much higher, or much lower:
  Shoot just between, your arrows keen,
            A little o’ th’ t’on with t’other.

  No smoake desire without a fire,
  No wax without a Writing:
  If right you deal give Deeds to Seal,
  And straight fall to inditing;
  Thus do I take these lines I make,
  As to a faithful Lover,
  In order he’ll first write, then seal,
            A little o’ th’ t’on with t’other.

  Thus while she staid the young man plaid [p. 29.]
  Not high, but low defending; [? descending;]
  Each stroak he strook so well she took,
  She swore it was past mending;
  Let swaggering boys that think by toyes
  Their Lovers to fetch over,
  Lip-labour save, for the maids must have
            A little o’ th’ t’on with t’other.

[p. 32.]

_A Song._

  A Young man walking all alone
  Abroad to take the air,
  It was his chance to meet a maid
  Of beauty passing fair:
  Desiring her of curtesie
  Down by him for to sit;
  She answered him most modestly,
            O nay, O nay not yet.

  Forty Crowns I will give thee,
  Sweet heart, in good red Gold,
  If that thy favour I may win
  With thee for to be bold:
  She answered him with modesty,
  And with a fervent wit,
  Think’st thou I’ll stain my honesty?
            O nay, O nay not yet.

  Gold and silver is but dross, [p. 33.]
  And worldly vanity;
  There’s nothing I esteem so much
  As my Virginity;
  What do you think I am so loose, [_al. lect._, mad]
  And of so little wit,
  As for to lose my maidenhead?
            O nay, O nay not yet.

  Although our Sex be counted base,
  And easie to be won,
  You see that I can find a check
  Dame Natures Games to shun;
  Except it be in modesty,
  That may become me fit,
  Think’st I am weary of my honesty?
            O nay, O nay not yet.

  The young man stood in such a dump,
  Not giving no more words,
  He gave her that in quietness
  Which love to maids affords:
  The maid was ta’n as in a trance,
  And such a sudden fit,
  As she had almost quite forgot
            Her nay, O nay not yet.

  The way to win a womans love
  Is only to be brief,
  And give her that in quietness
  Will ease her of her grief:
  For kindness they will not refuse
  When young men proffer it,
  Although their common speeches be
            O nay, O nay not yet.

[p. 56.]

_Admiral ~Deans~ Funeral._


  _Nick Culpepper_, and _William Lilly_,
  Though you were pleas’d to say they were silly,
  Yet something these prophesi’d true, I tell you, [? ye,]
          Which no body can deny.


  In the month of _May_, I tell you truly,
  Which neither was in _June_ nor _July_,
  The Dutch began to be unruly,
          Which no body can deny.


  Betwixt our _England_ and their _Holland_,
  Which neither was in _France_ nor _Poland_,
  But on the Sea, where there was no Land,
          Which no body can deny.


  They joyn’d the Dutch, and the English Fleet,
  [In] Our Authors opinion then they did meet,
  Some saw’t that never more shall see’t,
          Which no body can deny.


  There were many mens hearts as heavy as lead, [p. 57.]
  Yet would not believe _Dick Dean_ to be dead,
  Till they saw his Body take leave of his head,
          Which no body can deny.


  Then after the sad departure of him,
  There was many a man lost a Leg or a Lim,
  And many were drown’d ’cause they could not swim,
          Which no body can deny.


  One cries, lend me thy hand[,] good friend,
  Although he knew it was to no end,
  I think, quoth he, I am going to the Fiend,
          Which no body can deny.


  Some, ’twas reported, were kill’d with a Gun,
  And some stood that knew not whether to run,
  There was old taking leave of Father and Son,
          Which no body can deny.


  There’s a rumour also, if we may believe,
  We have many gay Widdows now given to grieve,
  ’Cause unmannerly Husbands ne’er came to take leave,
          Which no body can deny.


  The Ditty is sad of our _Deane_ to sing;
  To say truth, it was a pittiful thing
  To take off his head and not leave him a ring,
          Which no body can deny.


  From _Greenwich_ toward the Bear at Bridge foot
  He was wafted with wind that had water to’t,
  But I think they brought the devil to boot,
          Which no body can deny.


  The heads on _London_ Bridge upon Poles, [p. 58.]
  That once had bodies, and honester soules
  Than hath the Master of the Roules,
          Which no body can deny,


  They grieved for this great man of command,
  Yet would not his head amongst theirs should stand;
  He dy’d on the Water, and they on the Land,
          Which no body can deny.


  I cannot say, they look’d wisely upon him,
  Because people cursed that parcel was on him;
  He has fed fish and worms, if they do not wrong him,
          Which no body can deny.


  The Old Swan, as he passed by,
  Said, she would sing him a dirge, and lye down & die:
  Wilt thou sing to a bit of a body, quoth I?
          Which no body can deny.


  The Globe on the bank, I mean, on the Ferry,
  Where Gentle and simple might come & be merry,
  Admired at the change from a Ship to a Wherry,
          Which no body can deny.


  _Tom Godfreys_ Bears began for to roare,
  Hearing such moans one side of the shore,
  They knew they should never see _Dean_ any more,
          Which no body can deny.


  Queenhithe, _Pauls_-Wharf, and the Fryers also,
  Where now the Players have little to do,
  Let him pass without any tokens of woe,
          Which no body can deny.

  19. [p. 59.]

  Quoth th’ Students o’th’ Temple, I know not their names,
  Looking out of their Chambers into the Thames,
  The Barge fits him better than did the great _James_,
          Which no body can deny.


  _Essex_ House, late called Cuckold’s Hall,
  The Folk in the Garden staring over the wall,
  Said, they knew that once _Pride_ would have a fall,
          Which no body can deny.


  At Strand Gate, a little farther then,
  Were mighty Guns numbred to sixty and ten,
  Which neither hurt Children, Women, nor Men,
          Which no body can deny.


  They were shot over times one, two, three, or four,
  ’Tis thought one might ’heard th’ bounce to th’ Tower,
  Folk report, the din made the Buttermilk sower,
          Which no body can deny.


  Had old Goodman _Lenthal_ or _Allen_ but heard ’um,
  The noise worse than _Olivers_ voice would ’fear’d ’um,
  And out of their small wits would have scar’d ’um.
          Which no body can deny.


  Sommerset House, where once did the Queen lye,
  And afterwards _Ireton_ in black, and not green, by,
  The Canon clattered the Windows really,
          Which no body can deny.


  The _Savoys_ mortified spittled Crew,
  If I lye, as _Falstaffe_ saies, I am a Jew,
  Gave the Hearse such a look it would make a man spew,
          Which no body can deny.


  The House of S—— that Fool and Knave, [p. 60.]
  Had so much wit left lamentation to save
  From accompanying a traytorly Rogue to his grave,
          Which no body can deny.


  The Exchange, and the ruines of _Durham_ House eke,
  Wish’d such sights might be seen each day i’ th’ week,
  A Generals Carkass without a Cheek,
          Which no body can deny.


  The House that lately Great _Buckinghams_ was,
  Which now Sir _Thomas Fairfax_ has,
  Wish’d it might be Sir _Thomas’s_ fate so to pass,
          Which no body can deny.


  _Howards_ House, _Suffolks_ great Duke of Yore,
  Sent him one single sad wish, and no more,
  He might flote by _Whitehall_ in purple gore,
          Which no body can deny.


  Something I should of _Whitehall_ say,
  But the Story is so sad, and so bad, by my fay,
  That it turns my wits another way,
          Which no body can deny.


  To _Westminster_, to the Bridge of the Kings,
  The water the Barge, and the Barge-men[,] brings
  The small remain of the worst of things,
          Which no body can deny.


  They interr’d him in triumph, like _Lewis_ the eleven,
  In the famous Chappel of _Henry_ the seven,
  But his soul is scarce gone the right way to heaven,
          Which no body can deny.

[p. 64.]

_A merrie Journey to ~France~._

  I went from _England_ into _France_,
  Not for to learn to sing nor dance,
            To ride, nor yet to fence,
  But for to see strange sights, as those
  That have return’d without a nose
            They carried away from hence.

  As I to _Paris_ rode along,
  Like to _John Dory_ in the Song,
            Upon a holy Tyde,
  Where I an ambling Nag did get,
  I hope he is not paid for yet,
            I spurr’d him on each side.

  First, to Saint _Dennis_ then I came,
  To see the sights at _Nostredame_,
            The man that shews them snaffles:
  That who so list, may there believe
  To see the Virgin _Maries_ Sleeve,
            And eke her odd Pantafles. [? old]

  The breast-milk, and the very Gown
  That she did wear in _Bethlehem_ Town,
            When in the Barn she lay:
  But men may think that is a Fable, [p. 65.]
  For such good cloaths ne’er came in Stable
            Upon a lock of hay.

  No Carpenter can by his trade
  Have so much Coin as to have made
            A gown of such rich Stuff:
  But the poor fools must, for their credit,
  Believe, and swear old _Joseph_ did it,
            ’Cause he received enough. [_al. lect._, deserv’d]

  There is the Lanthorn which the Jews,
  When _Judas_ led them forth, did use,
            It weighs my weight down-right;
  And then you must suppose and think
  The Jews therein did put a Link,
            And then ’t was wondrous bright. [? light]

  There is one Saint has lost his nose,
  Another his head, but not his toes,
            An elbow, and a thumb;
  When we had seen those holy rags,
  We went to the Inne and took our Nags,
            And so away we come.

  We came to _Paris_, on the _Seine_,
  ’Tis wondrous fair, but little clean,
            ’Tis _Europes_ greatest Town:
  How strong it is I need not tell it,
  For every one may easily smell it
            As they ride up and down.

  There’s many rare sights for to see,
  The Palace, the great Gallery,
            Place-Royal doth excell;
  The Newbridge, and the Statute stairs, [p. 66.]
  At _Rotterdam_, Saint _Christophers_, [? _Nostre Dame_]
            The Steeple bears the Bell.

  For Arts, the University,
  And for old Cloaths, the Frippery,
            The Queen the same did build;
  Saint _Innocent[s’]_, whose earth devours
  Dead Corps in four and twenty hours,
            And there the King was kill’d.

  The _Bastile_, and Saint _Dennis_ street,
  The _Chastelet_, like _London_ Fleet;
            The Arsenal is no toy;
  But if you will see the pretty thing,
  Oh go to Court and see the King,
            Oh he is a hopeful boy.

  He is of all [his] Dukes and Peers
  Reverenc’d for wit as well as years;
            Nor must you think it much
  That he with little switches play,
  And can make fine dirt-pies of Clay,
            O never King made such.

  Birds round about his Chamber stands,
  The which he feeds with his own hands,
            ’Tis his humility:
  And if they want [for] any thing,
  They may but whistle to their King
            And he comes presently.

  A bird that can but catch a Fly,
  Or prate to please his Majesty, [_al. lect._, doth please]
            It’s known to every one;
  The Duke _De Guise_ gave him a Parrot, [p. 67.]
  And he had twenty Cannons for it
            For his great Gallion.

  O that it e’er might be my hap
  To catch the bird that in the Map
            They call the Indian Chuck,
  I’d give it him, and hope to be
  As great and wise a man as he,
            Or else I had ill luck.

  Besides, he hath a pretty firk,
  Taught him by Nature, for to work
            In Iron with much ease:
  And then unto the Forge he goes,
  There he knocks, and there he blows,
            And makes both locks and Keys.

  Which puts a doubt in every one
  Whether he be _Mars_ or _Vulcans_ Son,
            For few believe his Mother:
  For his Incestuous House could not
  Have any Children, unless got
            By Uncle, or by Brother.

  Now for these virtues needs he must
  Intituled be _Lewis_ the Just,
            _Heneries_ Great Heir;
  Where to his Stile we add more words,
  Better to call him King of Birds
            Than of the Great _Navar_.

  His Queen, she is a little Wench,
  Was born in _Spain_, speaks little French,
            Ne’er like to be a Mother:
  But let them all say what they will, [p. 68.]
  I do beleeve, and shall do still,
            As soon the one as t’other.

  Then why should _Lewis_ be so just,
  Contented be to take his lust [? he]
            With his lascivious Mate,
  Or suffer this his little Queen,
  From all her Sex that e’er had been,
            Thus to degenerate?

  ’Twere charity to have it known,
  Love other Children as his own
            To him it were no shame:
  For why should he near greater be
  Than was his Father _Henery_,
            Who, some say, did the same?

[p. 85.]

_Englands Woe._

  I mean to speak of _Englands_ sad fate,
  To help in mean time the King, and his Mate,
  That’s ruled by an Antipodian State,
          Which no body can deny.

  But had these seditious times been when
  We had the life of wise Poet _Ben_,
  Parsons had never been Parliament men,
          Which no body can deny.

  Had Statesmen read the Bible throughout,
  And not gone by the Bible so round about,
  They would have ruled themselves without doubt,
          Which no body can deny.

  But Puritans now bear all the sway,
  They’ll have no Bishops as most men say,
  But God send them better another day,
          Which no body can deny.

  Zealous _Pryn_ has threatned a great downfall,
  To cut off long locks that is bushy and small,
  But I hope he will not take ears and all,
          Which no body can deny.

  _Prin_, [and] _Burton_, saies women that’s leud and loose,
  Shall wear no stallion locks for a bush, [_Italian_ ... abuse]
  They’ll only have private boyes for their use, [_al. lect._, Keyes]
          Which no body can deny.

  They’ll not allow what pride it brings, [p. 86.]
  Nor favours in hats, nor no such things,
  They’l convert all ribbands to Bible strings,
          Which no body can deny.

  God bless our King and Parliament,
  And send he may make such K—— repent [Knaves]
  That breed our Land such discontent,
          Which no body can deny.

  And bless our Queen and Prince also,
  And all true Subjects both high and low,
  The brownings can pray for themselves you know,
          Which no body can deny.

[p. 88.]

_Ladies Delight._

  Hang Chastity[!] it is for the milking pail,
          Ladies ought to be more valiant:
  Not to be confin’d in body and mind
          Is the temper of a right she Gallant;
  Hither all you Amazons that are true
          To this famous Dildoe profession,
  She is no bonny Lass that fears to transgress
          The Act against Fornication.

  The Country Dame, that loves the old sport,
          Or delights in a new invention,
  May be fitted here, if they please to repair
          To this high ranting Convention;
  If you are weary of your Coyn,
          Or of your Chastity,
  Here is costly toyes, or hot-metled boyes,
          That will ease you presently.

  Both curious heads and wanton tailes
          May here have satisfaction;
  Here is all kind of ware, that useful are
          For pride or provocation;
  Here’s Drugs to paint, or Powder to perfume,
          Or Ribbon of the best fashion;
  Here’s dainty meat will fit you for the feat
          Beyond all expectation.

  Here’s curious patches to set out your faces, [p. 89.]
          And make you resemble the sky;
  Or here’s looking-glasses to shew the poor Asses,
          Your Husbands, their destiny;
  Here’s bawbles too to play withall,
          And some to stand in stead;
  This place doth afford both for your brow,
          And stallions for your head.

  Old Ladies here may be reliev’d,
          If Ushers they do lack,
  Or if they’ll not discharge their husbands at large,
          But grow foundred in the back;
  Green visag’d Damsels, that are sick
          Of a troubled Maidenhead,
  May here, if they please, be cur’d of the disease
          And their green colours turn’d to red.

[p. 95.]

_The Tyrannical Wife._

  It was a man, and a jolly old man,
          Come love me whereas I lay,
  And he would marry a fair young wife
          The clean contrary way.

  He woo’d her for to wed, to wed,
          Come love me whereas I lay,
  And even she kickt him out of the bed
          The clean contrary way.

  Then for her dinner she looked due,
          Come love me whereas I lay,
  Or else would make her husband rue
          The clean contrary way.

  She made him wash both dish and spoon,
          Come love me whereas I lay,
  He had better a gone on his head to _Rome_
          The clean contrary way.

  She proved a gallant huswife soon,
          Come love me whereas I lay,
  She was every morning up by noon
          The clean contrary way,

  She made him go to wash and wring, [p. 96.]
          Come love me whereas I lay,
  And every day to dance and sing
          The clean contrary way.

  She made him do a worse thing than this,
          Come love me whereas I lay,
  To father a child was none of his,
          The clean contrary way.

  Hard by a bush, and under a brier,
          Come love me whereas I lay,
  I saw a holy Nun lye under a Frier
          The clean contrary way.

  To end my Song I think it long,
          Come love me whereas I lay,
  Come give me some drink and I’ll be gone
          The clean contrary way.

[p. 134.]

_The Tinker._

[Some of these verses are evidently misplaced: We keep them unchanged,
but add side-notes to rectify.]

  There was a Lady in this Land
          That lov’d a Gentleman,
  And could not have him secretly,
          As she would now and then,
  Till she devis’d to dress him like
          A Tinker in Vocation:
  And thus, disguis’d, she bid him say,
          He came to clout her Cauldron.

  His face full fair she smother’s black [2.]
          That he might not be known,
  A leather Jerkin on his back, [p. 135.]
          His breeches rent and torn;
  With speed he passed to the place,
          To knock he did not spare:
  Who’s that, quoth the lady[’s Porter] then,
          That raps so rashly there.

  I am a Tinker, then quoth he, [3.]
          That worketh for my Fee,
  If you have Vessels for to mend,
          Then bring them unto me:
  For I have brass within my bag,
          And target in my Apron,
  And with my skill I can well clout,
          And mend a broken Cauldron.

  Quoth she, our Cauldron hath most need, [? verse 7.]
          At it we will begin,
  For it will hold you half an hour
          To trim it out and in:
  But first give me a glass of drink,
          The best that we do use,
  For why[,] it is a Tinkers guise
          No good drink to refuse.

  Then to the Brew-house hyed they fast, [? verse 8.]
          This broken piece to mend,
  He said he would no company,
          His Craft should not be kend,
  But only to your self, he said,
          That must pay me my Fee:
  I am no common Tinker,
          But work most curiously.

  And I also have made a Vow, [? verse 9. p. 136.]
          I’ll keep it if I may,
  There shall no mankind see my work,
          That I may stop or stay:
  Then barred he the Brew-house door,
          The place was very dark,
  He cast his Budget from his back,
          And frankly fell to work.

  And whilst he play’d and made her sport, [? verse 10.]
          Their craft the more to hide,
  She with his hammer stroke full hard
          Against the Cauldron side:
  Which made them all to think, and say,
          The Tinker wrought apace,
  And so be sure he did indeed,
          But in another place.

  The Porter went into the house, [? verse 4.]
          Where Servants us’d to dine,
  Telling his Lady, at the Gate
          There staid a Tinker fine:
  Quoth he, much Brass he wears about,
          And Target in his Apron,
  Saying, that he hath perfect skill
          To mend your broken Cauldron.

  Quoth she, of him we have great need, [? verse 5.]
          Go Porter, let him in,
  If he be cunning in his Craft
          He shall much money win:
  But wisely wist she who he was,
          Though nothing she did say,
  For in that sort she pointed him
          To come that very day.

  When he before the Lady came, [? verse 6. p. 137.]
          Disguised stood he there,
  He blinked blithly, and did say,
          God save you Mistris fair;
  Thou’rt welcome, Tinker, unto me,
          Thou seem’st a man of skill,
  All broken Vessels for to mend,
          Though they be ne’er so ill;
  I am the best man of my Trade,
          Quoth he, in all this Town,
  For any Kettle, Pot, or Pan,
          Or clouting of a Cauldron.

  Quoth he, fair Lady, unto her, [verse 11.]
          My business I have ended,
  Go quickly now, and tell your Lord
          The Cauldron I have mended:
  As for the Price, that I refer
          Whatsoever he do say,
  Then come again with diligence,
          I would I were away.

  The Lady went unto her Lord, [12.]
          Where he walkt up and down,
  Sir, I have with the Tinker been,
          The best in all the Town:
  His work he doth exceeding well,
          Though he be wondrous dear,
  He asks no less than half a Mark
          For that he hath done here.

  Quoth he, that Target is full dear, [13.]
          I swear by Gods good Mother:
  Quoth she, my Lord, I dare protest,
          ’Tis worth five hundred other;
  He strook it in the special place, [p. 138.]
          Where greatest need was found,
  Spending his brass and target both,
          To make it safe and sound.

  Before all Tinkers in the Land,
          That travels up and down,
  Ere they should earn a Groat of mine,
          This man should earn a Crown:
  Or were you of his Craft so good,
          And none but I it kend,
  Then would it save me many a Mark,
          Which I am fain to spend.

  The Lady to her Coffer went,
          And took a hundred Mark,
  And gave the Tinker for his pains,
          That did so well his work;
  Tinker, said she, take here thy fee,
          Sith here you’ll not remain,
  But I must have my Cauldron now
          Once scoured o’er again.

  Then to the former work they went,
          No man could them deny;
  The Lady said, good Tinker call
          The next time thou com’st by:
  For why[,] thou dost thy work so well,
          And with so good invention,
  If still thou hold thy hand alike,
          Take here a yearly Pension.

  And ev’ry quarter of the year
          Our Cauldron thou shalt view;
  Nay, by my faith, her Lord gan say, [p. 139.]
          I’d rather buy a new;
  Then did the Tinker take his leave
          Both of the Lord and Lady,
  And said, such work as I can do,
          To you I will be ready.
  From all such Tinkers of the trade
          God keep my Wife, I pray,
  That comes to clout her Cauldron so,
          I’ll swinge him if I may.

[A song follows, beginning “There were three birds that built very low.”
With other four, commencing respectively on pp. 146, 153, 161, and 168,
it is degraded from position here; for substantial reasons; and (with a
few others, afterwards to be specified,) given separately. Nothing but
the absolute necessity of making this a genuine Antiquarian Reprint,
worthy of the confidence of all mature students of our Early Literature,
compels the Editor to admit such prurient and imbecile pieces at all.
They are tokens of a debased taste that would be inconceivable, did
we not remember that, not more than twenty years ago, crowds of MP.s,
Lawyers, and Baronets listened with applause, and encored tumultuously,
songs far more objectionable than these (if possible) in London Music
Halls, and Supper Rooms. Those who recollect what R...s sang (such as
“The Lock of Hair,” “My name it is Sam Hall, Chimbley Sweep,” &c.),
and what “Judge N——” said at his Jury Court, need not be astonished at
anything which was sung or written in the days of the Commonwealth and at
the Restoration. A few words we suppress into dots in _Supplement_, &c.]

[p. 148.]

_The Maid a bathing._

  Upon a Summers day,
          ’Bout middle of the morn,
  I spy’d a Lass that lay
          Stark nak’d as she was born;
  ’Twas by a running Pool,
          Within a meddow green,
  And there she lay to cool,
          Not thinking to be seen.

  Then did she by degrees
          Wash every part in rank,
  Her Arms, her breasts, her thighs,
          Her Belly, and her Flank;
  Her legs she opened wide,
          My eyes I let down steal,
  Untill that I espy’d
          Dame natures privy Seal.

  I stript me to the skin,
          And boldly stept unto her,
  Thinking her love to win,
          I thus began to wooe her:
  Sweet heart be not so coy,
          Time’s sweet in pleasure spent,
  She frown’d, and cry’d, away,
          Yet, smiling, gave consent.

  Then blushing, down she slid, [p. 149.]
          Seeming to be amazed,
  But heaving up her head,
          Again she on me gazed;
  I seeing that, lay down,
          And boldly ’gan to kiss,
  And she did smile, and frown,
          And so fell to our bliss.

  Then lay she on the ground
          As though she had been sped,
  As women in a swoon,
          Yield up, and yet not dead:
  So did this lively maid,
          When hot bloud fill’d her vein,
  And coming to her self she said,
          I thank you for your pain.

[Part First, 1661, ends on pages 171-175, with _The new Medley of the
Country man, Citizen, and Souldier_ (which in the 1670 and 1691 editions
are on pp. 182-187). The 1661 edition of SECOND PART has a complete
title-page of its own, in black and red, exactly agreeing with its own
First Part, except that the words are prefixed “THE || Second Part ||
OF.” A contemporary MS. note in Ant. à Wood’s copy, says, of each part,
“1s. 3d.” as the original price. There is also, in the 1661 edition (and
in that only), another address, here, which runs as follows:—

                          “To the Reader:

    “Courteous Reader,

    “_We do here present thee with the Second part of ~Merry
    Drollery~, not doubting but it will find good Reception with
    the more Ingenious; The deficiency of this shall be supplied in
    a third, when time shall serve: In the mean time_


The _Third Part_, mentioned above, never appeared.

The woodcut Initial W represents Salome, the daughter of Herodias,
receiving from the Roman-like _Stratiotes_ the head of John the Baptist
(whose body lies at their feet), she holding her charger. The Editor
hopes to engrave it for the Introduction to this present volume.

The pagination commences afresh in the 1661 Second Part; but continues in
the 1670, and the 1691 editions.]

Merry Drollery, 1661:


(_Omitted in 1670 and 1691 Editions._)

[Part 2nd., p. 21.]

_The Force of Opportunity._

  You gods that rule upon the Plains,
  Where nothing but delight remains;
  You Nymphs that haunt the Fairy Bowers,
  Exceeding _Flora_ with her flowers;
  The fairest woman that earth can have
  Sometimes forbidden fruit will crave,
          For any woman, whatsoe’r she be,
          Will yield to Opportunity.

  Your Courtly Ladies that attends,
  May sometimes dally with their friends;
  And she that marries with a Knight
  May let his Lodging for a night;
  And she that’s only Worshipful
  Perhaps another friend may gull:
          For any woman, _&c._

  The Chamber-maid that’s newly married
  Perhaps another man hath carried;
  Your City Wives will not be alone,
  Although their husbands be from home;
  The fairest maid in all the town
  For green will change a russet Gown;
          For any woman, _&c._

  And she that loves a Zealous brother,
  May change her Pulpit for another;
  Physitians study for their skill, [p. 22.]
  Whiles wives their Urinals do fill;
  The Lawyers wife may take her pride
  Whilst he their Causes doth decide;
          For every woman, _&c._

  The Country maid, that milks the Cow,
  And takes great pains to work and do,
  I’th’ fields may meet her friend or brother,
  And save her soul to get another;
  And she that to the Market[’]s gone
  May horn her man ere she come home;
          For any woman, _&c._

  You Goddesses and Nymphs so bright,
  The greater Star, the lesser light;
  To Lords, as well as mean estates,
  Belongeth husbands horned baites, [? pates.]
  Then give your Ladies leave to prove
  The things the which your selves do love;
          For any woman, what ere she be,
          Will yield to Opportunity.

[p. 22.]

_Lusty Tobacco._

  You that in love do mean to sport,
          Tobacco, Tobacco,
  First take a wench of a meaner sort,
          Tobacco, Tobacco,
  But let her have a comely grace,
  Like one that came from _Venus_ race,
  Then take occasion, time, and place,
    To give her some Tobacco.

  You —— gamesters must be bound, [p. 23.]
          Tobacco, Tobacco,
  Their bullets must be plump and round,
          Tobacco, Tobacco,
  Your Stopper must be stiff and strong,
  Your Pipe it must be large and long,
  Or else she’ll say you do her wrong,
          She’ll scorn your weak Tobacco.

  And if that you do please her well,
          Tobacco, Tobacco,
  All others then she will expell,
          Tobacco, Tobacco.
  She will be ready at your call
  To take Tobacco, Pipe, and all,
  So willing she will be to fall
          To take your strong Tobacco.

  And when you have her favour won,
          Tobacco, Tobacco,
  You must hold out as you begun,
          Tobacco, Tobacco,
  Or else she’ll quickly change her mind,
  And seek some other Friend to find,
  That better may content her mind
          In giving her Tobacco.

  And if you do not do her right,
          Tobacco, Tobacco,
  She’ll take a course to burn your Pipe,
          Tobacco, Tobacco,
  And if you ask what she doth mean,
  She’ll say she doth’t to make it clean,
  Then take you heed of such a Quean
          For spoyling your Tobacco,

  As I my self dare boldly speak, [p. 24.]
          Tobacco, Tobacco,
  Which makes my very heart to break,
          Tobacco, Tobacco,
  For she that I take for my friend,
  Hath my Tobacco quite consum’d,
  She hath spoil’d my Pipe, and there’s an end
          Of all my good Tobacco.

[p. 29.]

_On the Goldsmiths-Committee._

  Come Drawer, some wine,
  Or we’ll pull down the Sign,
          For we are all jovial Compounders:
  We’ll make the house ring,
  With healths to the KING,
          And confusion light on his Confounders.

  Since Goldsmiths Committee
  Affords us no pitty,
          Our sorrows in wine we will steep ’um,
  They force us to take
  Two Oaths, but we’ll make
          A third, that we ne’r mean to keep ’um.

  And next, who e’r sees,
  We drink on our knees,
          To the King, may he thirst that repines.
  A fig for those traitors
  That look to our waters,
          They have nothing to do with our wines.

  And next here’s a Cup
  To the Queen, fill it up,
          Were it poyson, we would make an end o’nt:
  May _Charles_ and She meet,
  And tread under feet
          Both Presbyter and Independent.

  To the Prince, and all others,
  His Sisters and Brothers,
          As low in condition as high born,
  We’ll drink this, and pray, [p. 30.]
  That shortly they may,
          See all them that wrongs them at _Tyburn_.

  And next here’s three bowls
  To all gallant souls,
          That for the King did, and will venter,
  May they flourish when those
  That are his, and their foes
          Are hang’d and ram’d down to the Center.

  And next let a Glass
  To our undoers pass,
          Attended with two or three curses:
  May plagues sent from hell
  Stuff their bodies as well,
          As the Cavaliers Coyn doth their purses.

  May the _Cannibals_ of _Pym_
  Eat them up limb by limb,
          Or a hot Fever scorch ’um to embers,
  Pox keep ’um in bed
  Untill they are dead,
          And repent for the loss of their Members.

  And may they be found
  In all to abound,
          Both with heaven and the countries anger,
  May they never want Fractions,
  Doubts, Fears, and Distractions,
          Till the Gallow-tree choaks them from danger.

[p. 31.]

_Insatiate Desire._

  O That I could by any Chymick Art
  To sperme, convert my spirit and my heart,
  That at one thrust I might my soul translate,
  And in her w... my self degenerate,
  There steep’d in lust nine months I would remain,
  Then boldly —— my passage back again.

[p. 32.]

_The Horn exalted._

  Listen Lordings to my Story,
  I will sing of Cuckolds glory,
  And thereat let none be vext,
  None doth know whose turn is next;
  And seeing it is in most mens scorn,
  ’Tis Charity to advance the _Horn_.

  _Diana_ was a Virgin pure,
  Amongst the rest chaste and demure;
  Yet you know well, I am sure,
  What _Acteon_ did endure,
  If men have _Horns_ for [such] as she, [p. 33.]
  I pray thee tell me what are we?

  Let thy friend enjoy his rest,
  What though he wear _Acteons_ creast?
  Malice nor Venome at him spit,
  He wears but what the gods thinks fit;
  Confess he is by times Recorder
  Knight of great _Diana’s_ Order.

  _Luna_ was no venial sinner,
  Yet she hath a man within her,
  And to cut off Cuckolds scorns,
  She decks her head with Silver horns
  And if the moon in heaven[’]s thus drest,
  The men on earth like it are blest.

[_A Droll of a Louse_ (p. 33.), seven verses of seven lines each,
beginning “Discoveries of late have been made by adventures,” is
reserved. _Vide ante_ p. 230.]

[p. 38.]

_A Letany._

  From _Essex_ Anabaptist Laws,
  And from _Norfolk_ Plough-tail Laws, [? taws]
  From _Abigails_ pure tender Zeal,
  Whiter than a _Brownists_ veal,
  From a Serjeants Temple pickle,
  And the Brethrens _Conventicle_,
  From roguish meetings, or Cutpurse hall,
  And _New-England_, worst of all,
      _Libera nos Domine_.

  From the cry of _Ludgate_ debters, [p. 39.]
  And the noise of Prisoners Fetters,
  From groans of them that have the Pox,
  And coyl of Beggars in the Stocks,
  From roar o’ th’ _Bridge_, and _Bedlam_ prate,
  And with Wives met at _Billingsgate_,
  From scritch-owles, and dogs night-howling,
  From Sailers cry at their main bowling,
      _Libera nos Domine_.

  From _Frank Wilsons_ trick of _mopping_,
  And her ulcered h... with _popping_,
  From Knights o’ th’ post, and from decoys,
  From _Whores_, _Bawds_, and roaring _Boys_,
  From a _Bulker_ in the dark,
  And _Hannah_ with St. _Tantlins_ Clark,
  From Biskets Bawds have rubb’d their gums,
  And from purging-Comfit plums,
      _Libera nos Domine_.

  From _Sue Prats_ Son, the fair and witty,
  The Lord of _Portsmouth_, sweet and pretty,
  From her that creeps up _Holbourne_ hill,
  And _Moll_ that cries, _God-dam-me_ still,
  From backwards-ringing of the Bells,
  From both the Counters and Bridewells,
  From blind _Robbin_ and his _Bess_,
  And from a Purse that’s penniless,
      _Libera nos Domine_.

  From gold-finders, and night-weddings,
  From _Womens_ eyes false liquid sheddings,
  From _Rocks_, _Sands_, and _Cannon-shot_,
  And from a stinking Chamber-pot,
  From a hundred years old sinner, [p. 40.]
  And Duke _Humphreys_ hungry dinner,
  From stinking breath of an old Aunt[,]
  From Parritors and Pursevants[,]
      _Libera nos Domine_.

  From a Dutchmans snick and sneeing,
  From a nasty Irish being[,]
  From a _Welchmans_ lofty bragging,
  And a Monsieur loves not drabbing,

  From begging Scotchmen and their pride,
  From striving ’gainst both wind and tide,
  From too much strong Wine and Beer,
  Enforcing us to domineer,
      _Libera nos Domine_.

[Following the above comes a group of more than usually objectionable
Songs, viz., _John_ and _Joan_, beginning “If you will give ear” (p. 46);
“Full forty times over I have strived to win,” same title (p. 61); The
Answer to it, “He is a fond Lover that doateth on scorn” (p. 62); Love’s
Tenement, “If any one do want a house” (p. 64); and A New Year’s Gift,
“Fair Lady, for your New Year’s Gift” (p. 81). These are all reserved for
the Chamber of Horrors. _Vide ante_, p. 230.]

[p. 103.]

_New ~England~ described._

  Among the purifidian Sect,
  I mean the counterfeit Elect:
  Zealous bankrupts, Punks devout,
  Preachers suspended, rabble rout,
  Let them sell all, and out of hand
  Prepare to go to _New England_,
      To build new _Babel_ strong and sure,
      Now call’d a Church unspotted pure.

  There Milk from Springs, like Rivers, flows,
  And Honey upon hawthorn grows;
  Hemp, Wool, and Flax, there grows on trees,
  The mould is fat, it cuts like cheese;
  All fruits and herbs spring in the fields,
  Tobacco it good plenty yields;
      And there shall be a Church most pure,
      Where you may find salvation sure.

  There’s Venison of all sorts great store,
  Both Stag, and buck, wild Goat, and Boar,
  And all so tame, that you with ease
  May take your fill, eat what you please;
  There’s Beavers plenty, yea, so many,
  That you may buy two skins a penny,
      Above all this, a Church most pure,
      Where to be saved you may be sure.

  There’s flight of Fowl do cloud the skie,
  Great Turkies of threescore pound weight,
  As big as Estriges, there Geese, [p. 104.]
  With thanks, are sold for pence a piece;
  Of Duck and Mallard, Widgeon, Teale,
  Twenty for two-pence make a meale;
      Yea, and a Church unspotted pure,
      Within whose bosome all are sure.

  Loe, there in shoals all sorts of fish,
  Of the salt seas, and water fresh:
  Ling, Cod, Poor-John, and Haberdine,
  Are taken with the Rod and Line;
  A painful fisher on the shore
  May take at least twenty an houre;
      Besides all this a Church most pure,
      Where you may live and dye secure.

  There twice a year all sorts of Grain
  Doth down from heaven, like hailstones, rain;
  You ne’r shall need to sow nor plough,
  There’s plenty of all things enough:
  Wine sweet and wholsome drops from trees,
  As clear as chrystal, without lees;
      Yea, and a Church unspotted, pure,
      From dregs of Papistry secure.

  No Feasts nor festival set daies
  Are here observed, the Lord be prais’d,
  Though not in Churches rich and strong,
  Yet where no Mass was ever Sung,
  The Bulls of _Bashan_ ne’r met there[;]
  _Surplice_ and _Cope_ durst not appear;
      Old Orders all they will abjure,
      This Church hath all things new and pure.

  No discipline shall there be used, [p. 105.]
  The Law of Nature they have chused[;]
  All that the spirit seems to move
  Each man may choose and so approve,
  There’s Government without command,
  There’s unity without a band;
      A Synagogue unspotted pure,
      Where lust and pleasure dwells secure.

  Loe in this Church all shall be free
  To Enjoy their Christian liberty;
  All things made common, void of strife,
  Each man may take anothers wife,
  And keep a hundred maids, if need,
  To multiply, increase, and breed,
      Then is not this Foundation sure,
      To build a Church unspotted, pure?

  The native People, though yet wild,
  Are altogether kind and mild,
  And apt already, by report,
  To live in this religious sort;
  Soon to conversion they’l be brought
  When _Warrens Mariery_ have wrought,
      Who being sanctified and pure,
      May by the Spirit them alure.

  Let _Amsterdam_ send forth her Brats,
  Her Fugitives and Runnagates:
  Let Bedlam, Newgate, and the Clink
  Disgorge themselves into this sink;
  Let Bridewell and the stews be kept,
  And all sent thither to be swept;
      So may our Church be cleans’d and pure,
      Keep both it self and state secure.

[p. 106.]

_The insatiate Lover._

  Come hither my own sweet duck,
    And sit upon my knee,
  That thou and I may truck
    For thy Commodity,
  If thou wilt be my honey,
    Then I will be thine own,
  Thou shall not want for money
    If thou wilt make it known;
  With hey ho my honey,
    My heart shall never rue,
  For I have been spending money
    And amongst the jovial Crew.

  I prethee leave thy scorning,
    Which our true love beguiles,
  Thy eyes are bright as morning,
    The Sun shines in thy smiles,
  Thy gesture is so prudent,
    Thy language is so free,
  That he is the best Student
    Which can study thee;
  With hey ho, _&c._

  The Merchant would refuse
    His Indies and his Gold
  If he thy love might chuse,
    And have thy love in hold:
  Thy beauty yields more pleasure
    Than rich men keep in store,
  And he that hath such treasure [p. 107.]
    Never can be poor;
  With hey ho, _&c._

  The Lawyer would forsake
    His wit and pleading strong:
  The Ruler and Judge would take
    Thy part wer’t right or wrong;
  Should men thy beauty see
    Amongst the learned throngs,
  Thy very eyes would be
    Too hard for all their tongues;
  With hey ho, _&c._

  Thy kisses to thy friend
    The Surgeons skill out-strips,
  For nothing can transcend
    The balsome of thy Lips,
  There is such vital power
    Contained in thy breath,
  That at the latter hour
    ’Twould raise a man from death;
  With hey, ho, _&c._

  Astronomers would not
    Lye gazing in the skies
  Had they thy beauty got,
    No Stars shine like thine eyes:
  For he that may importune
    Thy love to an embrace,
  Can read no better fortune
    Then what is in thy face.
  With hey ho, _&c._

  The Souldier would throw down [p. 108.]
    His Pistols and Carbine,
  And freely would be bound
    To wear no arms but thine:
  If thou wert but engaged
    To meet him in the field,
  Though never so much inraged
    Thou couldest make him yield,
  With hey ho, _&c._

  The seamen would reject [Seaman]
    To sayl upon the Sea,
  And his good ship neglect
    To be aboard of thee:
  When thou liest on thy pillows
    He surely could not fail
  To make thy brest his billows,
    And to hoyst up sayl;
  With hey ho, _&c._

  The greatest Kings alive
    Would wish thou wert their own,
  And every one would strive
    To make thy Lap their Throne,
  For thou hast all the merit
    That love and liking brings;
  Besides a noble spirit,
    Which may conquer Kings;
  With hey ho, _&c._

  Were _Rosamond_ on earth
    I surely would abhor her,
  Though ne’r so great by birth
    I should not change thee for her;
  Though Kings and Queens are gallant, [p. 109.]
    And bear a royal sway,
  The poor man hath his Talent,
    And loves as well as they,
  With hey ho, _&c._

  Then prethee come and kiss me,
    And say thou art mine own,
  I vow I would not miss thee
    Not for a Princes Throne;
  Let love and I perswade thee
    My gentle suit to hear:
  If thou wilt be my Lady,
    Then I will be thy dear;
  With hey ho, _&c._

  I never will deceive thee,
    But ever will be true,
  Till death I shall not leave thee,
    Or change thee for a new;
  We’ll live as mild as may be,
    If thou wilt but agree,
  And get a pretty baby
    With a face like thee,
  With hey ho, _&c._

  Let these perswasions move thee
    Kindly to comply,
  There’s no man that can love thee
    With so much zeal as I;
  Do thou but yield me pleasure,
    And take from me this pain,
  I’ll give thee all the Treasure
    Horse and man can gain;
  With hey ho, _&c._

  I’ll fight in forty duels [p. 110.]
    To obtain thy grace,
  I’ll give thee precious jewels
    Shall adorn thy face;
  E’r thou for want of money
    Be to destruction hurl’d,
  For to support my honey
    I’ll plunder all the world;
  With hey ho, _&c._

  That smile doth show consenting,
    Then prethee let’s be gone,
  There shall be no repenting
    When the deed is done;
  My bloud and my affection,
    My spirits strongly move,
  Then let us for this action
    Fly to yonder grove,
  With hey ho, _&c._

  Let us lye down by those bushes
    That are grown so high,
  Where I will hide thy blushes;
    Here’s no standers by
  This seventh day of _July_,
    Upon this bank we’ll lye,
  Would all were, that love truly,
    As close as thou and I;
  With hey ho[,] my honey,
    My heart shall never rue,
  For I have been spending money
    Amongst the jovial Crew.

[Followed, in 1661 edition by “Now that the Spring,” &c., and the three
other pieces which are to be found in succession, already printed in our
_Merry Drollery, Compleat_ of 1670, 1691, pp. 296-301: The last of these
being the Song, “She lay all naked in her bed.” This begins on p. 115,
of Part 2nd, 1661; p. 300, 1691. In the former edition it is followed by
“The Answer,” beginning “She lay up to,” &c., which, like other extremely
objectionable pieces, is kept apart. Next follow, in 1661 edition, The
Louse, and the Concealment.]

[p. 149.]

_The Louse._

  If that you will hear of a Ditty
  That’s framed by a six-footed Creature,
  She lives both in Town and in City,
  She is very loving by nature;
  She’l offer her service to any,
  She’l stick close but she’l prevail,
  She’s entertained by too many
  Till death, she no man will fail.

  _Fenner_ once in a Play did describe her,
  How she had her beginning first,
  How she sprung from the loyns of great _Pharaoh_,
  And how by a King she was nurs’d:
  How she fell on the Carkass of _Herod_,
  A companion for any brave fighter,
  And there’s no fault to be found with her,
  But that she’s a devillish backbiter.

  With Souldiers she’s often comraded
  And often does them much good,
  She’l save them the charge of a Surgeon
  In sickness for letting them blood;
  Corruption she draws like a horse-leech, [p. 150.]
  Growing she’ll prove a great breeder,
  At night she will creep in her cottage,
  By day she’s a damnable feeder.

  She’l venture as much in a battel
  As any Commander may go,
  But then she’l play Jack on both sides,
  She cares not a fart for her Foe:
  She knows that alwaies she’s shot-free,
  To kill her no sword will prevaile,
  But if she’s taken prisoner,
  She’s prest to death by the naile.

  She doth not esteem of your rich men,
  But alwaies sticks close to the poor;
  Nor she cares not for your clean shifters,
  Nor for such as brave cloaths wear;
  She loves all such as are non-suited,
  Or any brave fellow that lacks;
  She’s as true a friend to poor Souldiers,
  As the shirt that sticks close to their backs.

  She cannot abide your clean Laundress,
  Nor those that do set her on work,
  Her delight is all in foul linnen,
  Where in narraw seams she may lurk:
  From her and her breed God defend me,
  For I have had their company store,
  Pray take her among you[,] Gentry,
  Let her trouble poor souldiers no more.

[As already mentioned, this is followed, in the 1661 Part Second, page
151, by The Concealment, beginning “I loved a maid, she loved not me,”
which is the last of the songs or poems peculiar to that edition. See
the end of our Supplement: so paged that it may be either omitted
or included, leaving no _hiatus_. We add, after the Supplement, the
title-page of the 1670 edition of _Merry Drollery, Compleat_; when
reissued in 1691, the _same sheets_ held the fresh title-page prefixed,
such as we gave in second Volume. Readers now possess the entire work,
all three editions, comprehended in our Reprint: which is the Fourth
Edition, but the first Annotated. J. W. E.]



_Notes, Illustrations, Various Readings, and Emendations of Text._


Arranged in Four Parts:—

    1.—_Choyce Drollery_, 1656.

    2.—_Antidote against Melancholy_, 1661.

    3.—_Westminster-Drollery_, 1674.

    4.—_Merry Drollery_, 1661; and Additional Notes to 1670-1691
    editions: with Index.

Readers, who have accompanied the Editor both in text and comment
throughout these three volumes of Reprints from the _Drolleries of the
Restoration_, can scarcely have failed to see that he has desired to
present the work for their study with such advantages as lay within his
reach. Certainly, he never could have desired to assist in bringing these
rare volumes into the hands of a fresh generation, if he believed not
that their few faults were far outweighed by their merits; and that much
may be learnt from both of these. Every antiquary is well aware that
during the troubled days of the Civil War, and for the remaining years
of the seventeenth century, books were printed with such an abundance
of typographical errors that a pure text of any author cannot easily be
recovered. In the case of all unlicensed publications, such as anonymous
pamphlets, _facetiæ_, broad-sheet Ballads, and the more portable
_Drolleries_, these imperfections were innumerable. Dropt lines and
omitted verses, corrupt readings and perversions of meaning, sometimes
amounting to a total destruction of intelligibility, might drive an
Editor to despair.

In regard to the _Drolleries_-literature, especially, if we remember, as
we ought to do, the difficulties and dangers attendant on the printing of
these political squibs and pasquinades, we shall be less inclined to rail
at the original collector, or “author,” and printers. If we ourselves, as
Editor, do our best to examine such other printed books and manuscripts
of the time, as may assist in restoring what for awhile was corrupted
or lost from the text (_keeping these corrections and additions clearly
distinguished, within square brackets, or in Appendix Notes_ to each
successive volume), we shall find ourselves more usefully employed than
in flinging stones at the Cavaliers of the Restoration, because they left
behind them many a doubtful reading or an empty flaggon.

We have given back, to all who desire to study these invaluable
records of a memorable time, four complete unmutilated works (except
twenty-seven necessarily dotted words): and we could gladly have
furnished additional information regarding each and all of these, if
further delay or increased bulk had not been equally inexpedient.

1.—In _Choyce Drollery_, 1656, are seen such fugitive pieces of poetry as
belong chiefly to the reign of Charles 1st., and to the eight years after
he had been judicially murdered.

2.—In _Merry Drollery_, 1661, and in the _Antidote against Melancholy_
of the same date, we receive an abundant supply of such Cavalier songs,
ballads, lampoons or pasquinades, social and political, as may serve to
bring before us a clear knowledge of what was being thought, said, and
done during the first year of the Restoration; and, indeed, a reflection
of much that had gone recently before, as a preparation for it.

3.—In such _additional_ matter as came to view in the _Merry Drollery,
Compleat_, of 1670 (N.B., precisely the same work as what we have
reprinted, from the 1691 edition, in our second volume); and still more
in the delightful _Westminster-Drolleries_ of 1671, 1672, and 1674, we
enjoy the humours of the Cavaliers at a later date: Songs from theatres
as well as those in favour at Court, and more than a few choice pastorals
and ditties of much earlier date, lend variety to the collection.

We could easily have added another volume; but enough has surely been
done in this series to show how rich are the materials. Let us increase
the value of all, before entering in detail on our third series of
Appendix Notes, by giving entirely the deeply-interesting Address to
the Reader, written and published in 1656 (exactly contemporary with
our _Choyce Drollery_), by Abraham Wright, for his rare collection of
University Poems, known as “_Parnassus Biceps_.”

    It is “An Epistle in the behalfe of those now doubly-secluded
    and sequestered Members, by one who himselfe is none.”

                                                  [Sheet sig. A 2.]

                         “To the Ingenuous


    These leaves present you with some few drops of that Ocean
    of Wit, which flowed from those two brests of this Nation,
    the _Universities_; and doth now (the sluces being puld up)
    overflow the whole Land: or rather like those Springs of
    Paradice, doth water and enrich the whole world; whilst the
    Fountains themselues are dryed up, and that Twin-Paradise
    become desart. For then were these Verses Composed, when
    _Oxford_ and _Camebridge_ were Universities, and a Colledge [A
    2, _reverso_] more learned then a Town-Hall, when the Buttery
    and Kitchin could speak Latine, though not Preach; and the very
    irrational Turnspits had so much knowing modesty, as not to
    dare to come into a Chappel, or to mount any Pulpits but their
    own. Then were these Poems writ, when peace and plenty were
    the best Patriots and Mæcenasses to great Wits; when we could
    sit and make Verses under our own Figtrees, and be inspired
    from the juice of our own Vines: then, when it was held no
    sin for the same man to be both a Poet, and a Prophet; and to
    draw predictions no lesse from his Verse then his Text. Thus
    you shall meet here St. _Pauls_ Rapture in a Poem, and the
    fancy as high and as clear as the third Heaven, into which
    [A. 3] that Apostle was caught up: and this not onely in the
    ravishing expressions and extasies of amorous Composures and
    Love Songs; but in the more grave Dorick strains of sollid
    Divinity: Anthems that might have become _Davids_ Harpe, and
    _Asaphs_ Quire, to be sung, as they were made, with the Spirit
    of that chief Musitian. Againe, In this small Glasse you may
    behold your owne face, fit your own humors, however wound up
    and tuned; whether to the sad note, and melancholy look of a
    disconsolate Elegy, or those more sprightly jovial Aires of an
    Epithalamium, or Epinichion. Further, would you see a Mistresse
    of any age, or face, in her created, or uncreated complexion:
    this mirrour presents you with more shapes then a Conjurers
    [_verso_] Glasse, or a Limner’s Pencil. It will also teach
    you how to court that Mistresse, when her very washings and
    pargettings cannot flatter her; how to raise a beauty out of
    wrinkles fourscore years old, and to fall in love even with
    deformity and uglinesse. From your Mistresse it brings you to
    your God; and (as it were some new Master of the Ceremonies)
    instructs you how to woe, and court him likewise; but with
    approaches and distances, with gestures and expressions
    suitable to a Diety [Deity]; addresses clothed with such a
    sacred filial horror and reverence, as may invite and embolden
    the most despairing condition of the saddest gloomy Sinner;
    and withall dash out of countenance the greatest confidence
    of the most glorious Saint: and not with that blasphemous
    familiarity [A. 4] of our new enlightened and inspired men,
    who are as bold with the Majesty and glory of that Light
    that is unapproachable, as with their own _ignes fatui_; and
    account of the third Person in the blessed Trinity for no more
    then their Fellow-Ghost; thinking him as much bound to them
    for their vertiginous blasts and whi[r]le-winds, as they to
    him for his own most holy Spirit. Your Authors then of these
    few sheets are Priests, as well as Poets; who can teach you
    to pray in verse, and (if there were not already too much
    phantasticknes in that Trade) to Preach likewise: while they
    turn Scripture-chapters into Odes, and both the Testaments
    into one book of Psalmes: making _Parnassus_ as sacred as
    Mount _Olivet_, and the nine Muses no lesse religious then a
    Cloyster of Nuns. [_verso_.] But yet for all this I would not
    have thee, _Courteous Reader_, pass thy censure upon those
    two Fountains of Religion and Learning, the _Universities_,
    from these few small drops of wit, as hardly as some have done
    upon the late _Assemblies_ three-half-penny Catechisme: as if
    all their publick and private Libraries, all their morning
    and evening watchings, all those pangs and throwes of their
    Studies, were now at length delivered but of a Verse, and
    brought to bed onely of five feet, and a Conceit. For although
    the judicious modesty of these men dares not look the world
    in the face with any of _Theorau Johns_ Revelations, or those
    glaring New-lights that have muffled the Times and Nation with
    a greater confusion and darknes, then ever benighted [A. 5]
    the world since the first Chaos: yet would they please but to
    instruct this ignorant Age with those exact elaborate Pieces,
    which might reform Philosophy without a Civil War, and new
    modell even Divinity its selfe without the ruine of either
    Church, or State; probably that most prudent and learned Order
    of the Church of _Rome_, the _Jesuite_, should not boast
    more sollid, though more numerous Volum[e]s in this kind.
    And of this truth that Order was very sensible, when it felt
    the rational Divinity of one single _Chillingworth_ to be an
    unanswerable twelve-years-task for all their English Colledges
    in Chrisendome. And therefore that _Society_ did like its
    selfe, when it sent us over a War instead of an Answer, and
    proved us Hereticks by the Sword: which [_verso_] in the first
    place was to Rout the _Universities_, and to teach our two
    Fountains of Learning better manners, then for ever heareafter
    to bubble and swell against the _Apostolick Sea_. And yet I
    know not whether the depth of their Politicks might not have
    advised to have kept those Fountains within their own banks,
    and there to have dammd them and choakd them up with the mud
    of the Times, rather then to have let those Protestant Streams
    run, which perchance may effect that now by the spreading
    Riverets, which they could never have done through the inclosed
    Spring: as it had been a deeper State-piece and Reach in that
    Sanedrim, the great Councell of the Jewish Nation, to have
    confined the Apostles to _Jerusalem_, and there to have muzzeld
    them [A 6] with Oaths, and Orders; rather then by a fruitful
    Persecution to scatter a few Gospel Seeds, that would spring
    up the Religion of the whole world: which had it been Coopd
    within the walls of that City, might (for all they knew) in
    few years have expired and given up the ghost upon the same
    _Golgotha_ with its Master. And as then every Pair of Fishermen
    made a Church and caught the sixt part of the world in their
    Nets; so now every Pair of Ce[o]lledge-fellows make as many
    several Universityes; which are truly so call’d, in that they
    are Catholick, and spread over the face of the whole earth;
    which stand amazed, to see not onely Religion, but Learning
    also to come from beyond the _Alpes_; and that a poor despised
    Canton and nook of the world should contain as much of each
    [_verso_] as all the other Parts besides. But then, as when our
    single Jesus was made an universall Saviour, and his particular
    Gospel the Catholick Religion; though that Jesus and this
    Gospel did both take their rise from the holy City; yet now no
    City is more unholy and infidel then that; insomuch that there
    is at this day scarce any thing to be heard of a Christ at
    _Jerusalem_, more then that such a one was sometimes there, nor
    any thing to be seen of his Gospel, more then a Sepulcher: just
    so it is here with us; where though both Religion and Learning
    do owe their growth, as well as birth, to those Nurseryes of
    both, the Universityes; yet, since the Siens of those Nurseryes
    have been transplanted, there’s little remaines in them now
    (if they are not belyed) either of the old [A 7] Religion
    and Divinity, more then its empty Chair & Pulpit, or of the
    antient Learning & Arts, except bare Schools, and their gilded
    Superscriptions: so far have we beggard our selves to enrich
    the whole world. And thus, _Ingenuous Sir_, have I given you
    the State and Condition of this _Poetick Miscellany_, as also
    of the _Authors_; it being no more then some few slips of the
    best Florists made up into a slender Garland, to crown them
    in their Pilgrimage, and refresh thee in thine: if yet their
    very Pilgrimage be not its selfe a Crown equall to that of
    Confessors, and their Academicall Dissolution a Resurrection to
    the greatest temporall glory: when they shall be approved of by
    men and Angels for a chosen Generation, a Royal Priesthood, a
    peculiar People. In the interim let this [_verso_] comfort be
    held out to you, _our secluded University members_, by him that
    is none; (and therefore what hath been here spoken must not be
    interpreted as out of passion to my self, but meer zeal to my
    Mother) that according to the generally received Principles
    and Axioms of Policy, and the soundest Judgment of the most
    prudential Statesmen upon those Principles, the date of your
    sad Ostracisme is expiring, and at an end; but yet such an end,
    as some of you will not embrace when it shall be offered; but
    will chuse rather to continue Peripateticks through the whole
    world, then to return, and be so in your own Colledges. For
    as that great Councell of _Trent_ had a Form and Conclusion
    altogether contrary to the expectation and desires of them that
    procured it; so our great Councels of _England_ [A 8] (our
    late Parliament) will have such a result, and Catastrophe, as
    shall no ways answer the Fasts and Prayers, the Humiliations,
    and Thanksgivings of their Plotters and Contrivers: such a
    result I say, that will strike a palsie through Mr. _Pims_
    ashes, make his cold Marble sweat; and put all those several
    Partyes, and Actors, that have as yet appeard upon our tragical
    bloudy Stage, to an amazed stand and gaze: when they shall
    confess themselves (but too late) to be those improvident axes
    and hammers in the hand of a subtle _Workman_; whereby he was
    enabled to beat down, and square out our Church and State
    into a Conformity with his own. And then it will appeare that
    the great Worke, and the holy Cause, and the naked Arme, so
    much talked of for [_verso_] these fifteen years, were but
    the work, and the cause, and the arme of that _Hand_, which
    hath all this while reached us over the _Alpes_; dividing,
    and composing, winding us up, and letting us down, untill our
    very discords have set and tuned us to such notes, both in our
    Ecclesiastical, and Civill Government; as may soonest conduce
    to that most necessary Catholick Unison and Harmony, which
    is an essential part of Christs Church here upon Earth, and
    the very Church its selfe in Heaven. And thus far, _Ingenuous
    Reader_, suffer him to be a Poet in his Prediction, though not
    in his Verse; who desires to be known so far to thee, as that
    he is a friend to persecuted Truth and Peace; and thy most
    affectionate Christian Servant,

                                                     _Ab: Wright_.”

    (From _Parnassus Biceps: or, Severall Choice Pieces of POETRY,
    composed by the best WITS that were in both the Universities
    before their DISSOLUTION_. London: Printed for _George
    Eversden_ at the Signe of the _Maidenhead_ in St. _Pauls_
    Church-yard, 1656.)


Note, on _The Address to the Reader_, &c.

The subscribed initials, “R. P.” are those of Robert Pollard; whose name
appears on the title-page (which we reproduce), preceding his address.
Excepting that he was a bookseller, dwelling and trading at the “Ben
Jonson’s Head, behind the Exchange,” in business-connection with John
Sweeting, of the Angel, in Pope’s Head Alley, in 1656; and that he had
previously issued a somewhat similar Collection of Poems to the _Choyce
Drollery_ (successful, but not yet identified), we know nothing more of
Robert Pollard. The books of that date, and of that special class, are
extremely rare, and the few existing copies are so difficult of access
(for the most part in private possession, almost totally inaccessible
except to those who know not how to use them), that information can only
be acquired piecemeal and laboriously. Five years hence, if the Editor
be still alive, he may be able to tell much more concerning the authors
and the compilers of the _Restoration Drolleries_.

We are told that there is an extra leaf to _Choyce Drollery_, “only found
in a few copies, containing ten lines of verse, beginning _Fame’s windy
trump_, &c. This leaf occurs in one or two extant copies of _England’s
Parnassus_, 1600. Many of the pieces found here are much older than
the date of the book [viz., 1656]. It contains notices of many of our
early poets, and, unlike some of its successors, is of intrinsic value.
Only two or three copies have occurred.” (_W. C. H.’s Handb. Pop. Lit.
G. B._, 1867, p. 168.) “Cromwell’s Government ordered this book to be
burned.” (_Ibid._) On this last item see our Introduction, section
first. J. P. Collier, who prepared the Catalogue of Richard Heber’s
Collection, _Bibliotheca Heberiana_, Pt. iv., 1834 (a rich storehouse
for bibliographical students, but not often gratefully acknowledged
by them), thus writes of _Choyce Drollery_:—“This is one of the most
intrinsically valuable of the _Drolleries_, if only for the sake of the
very interesting poem in which characters are given of all the following
Poets: Shakespeare, Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, Chapman,
Daborne, Sylvester, Quarles, May, Sands, Digges, Daniel, Drayton,
Withers, Brown, Shirley, Ford, Middleton, Heywood, Churchyard, Dekker,
Brome, Chaucer, Spencer, Basse, and finally John Shank, the Actor, who is
said to have been famous for a jig. Other pieces are much older, and are
here reprinted from previous collections” [mostly lost]. P. 90.

It is also known to J. O. Halliwell-Phillips; (but, truly, what is _not_
known to him?) See _Shakespeare Society’s Papers_, iii. 172, 1847.

In our copy of _England’s Parnassus_ (unindexed, save subjects), 1600, we
sought to find “_Fame’s windy trump_.” [We hear that the leaf was in _E.
P._ at Tite’s sale, 1874.]

As we have never seen a copy of _Choyce Drollery_ containing the passage
of “ten lines,” described as beginning “Fame’s Windy Trump,” we cannot be
quite certain of the following, from _England’s Parnassus_, 1600, being
the one in question, but believe that it is so. Perhaps it ran, “_Fame’s
Windy Trump, whatever sound out-flies_,” &c. There are twenty-seven lines
in all. We distinguish the probable portion of “ten lines” by enclosing
the other two parts in brackets:—


  [_A Monster swifter none is under sunne;_
  _Encreasing, as in waters we descrie_
  _The circles small, of nothing that begun,_
  _Which, at the length, unto such breadth do come,_
  _That of a drop, which from the skies doth fall,_
  _The circles spread, and hide the waters all:_
  _So Fame, in flight encreasing more and more;_
  _For, at the first, she is not scarcely knowne,_
  _But by and by she fleets from shore to shore,_
  _To clouds from th’ earth her stature straight is growne._
  _There whatsoever by her trumpe is blowne,_]

  _The sound, that both by sea and land out-flies,_
  _Rebounds againe, and verberates the skies._
  _They say, the earth that first the giants bred,_
  _For anger that the gods did them dispatch,_
  _Brought forth this sister of those monsters dead,_
  _Full light of foote, swift wings the winds to catch:_
  _Such monsters erst did nature never hatch._
  _As many plumes she hath from top to toe,_
  _So many eyes them underwatch or moe;_
  _And tongues do speake: so many eares do harke._

  [_By night ’tweene heaven she flies and earthly shade,_
  _And, shreaking, takes no quiet sleepe by darke:_
  _On houses roofes, on towers, as keeper made,_
  _She sits by day, and cities threates t’ invade;_
  _And as she tells what things she sees by view,_
  _She rather shewes that’s fained false, then true._]

                   [Legend of Albanact.] I. H., _Mirror of Magist_.

Page 1. _Deare Love, let me this evening dye._

This beautiful little love-poem re-appears, as Song 77, in _Windsor
Drollery_, 1672, p. 63. (There had been a previous edition of that work,
in 1671, which we have examined: it is not noted by bibliographers, and
is quite distinct.) A few variations occur. Verse 2. are _wrack’d_; 3.
In _love_ is not commended; _only_ sweet, All praise, _no_ pity; who
_fondly_; 4. _Shall shortly_ by dead Lovers lie; _hallow’d_; 5. _He_
which _all others_ els excels, That _are_; 6. _Will_, though thou; 7.
_the_ Bells _shall_ ring; _While_ all to _black is_; (last line but two
in parenthesis;) Making, like Flowers, &c.

Page 4. _Nor Love nor Fate dare I accuse._

By RICHARD BROME, in his “_Northerne Lasse_,” 1632, Act ii., sc. 6. It
is also given in _Westminster-Drollery_, 1671, i. 83 (the only song in
common). But compare with it the less musical and tender, “_Nor Love,
nor Fate can I accuse of hate_,” in same vol. ii. 90, with Appendix Note
thereunto, p. lxiii.

Page 5. _One night the great ~Apollo~, pleased with ~Ben~._

This remarkable and little-known account of “THE TIME-POETS” is doubly
interesting, as being a contemporary document, full of life-like
portraiture of men whom no lapse of years can banish from us; welcome
friends, whom we grow increasingly desirous of beholding intimately.
Glad are we to give it back thus to the world; our chief gem, in its
rough Drollery-setting: lifted once more into the light of day, from
out the cobwebbed nooks where it so long-time had lain hidden. Our joy
would have been greater, could we have restored authoritatively the lost
sixteenth-line, by any genuine discovery among early manuscripts; or told
something conclusive about the author of the poem, who has laid us under
obligation for these vivid portraits of John Ford, Thomas Heywood, poor
old Thomas Churchyard, and Ben’s courageous foeman, worthy of his steel,
that Thomas Dekker who “followed after in a dream.”

In deep humility we must confess that nothing is yet learnt as to the
authorship. Here, in the year 1656, almost at fore-front of _Choyce
Drollery_, the very strength of its van-guard, appeared the memorable
poem. Whether it were then and there for the first time in print, or
borrowed from some still more rare and now-lost volume, none of us can
prove. Even at this hour, a possibility remains that our resuscitation
of _Choyce Drollery_ may help to bring the unearthing of explanatory
facts from zealous students. We scarcely dare to cherish hope of this.
Certainly we may not trust to it. For Gerard Langbaine knew the poem
well, and quoted oft and largely from it in his 1691 _Account of the
English Dramatick Poets_. But he met with it nowhere save in _Choyce
Drollery_, and writes of it continually in language that proves how
ignorant he was of whom we are to deem the author. Yet he wrote within
five-and-thirty years behind the date of its appearance; and might easily
have learnt, from men still far from aged, who had read the _Drollery_ on
its first publication, whatever they could tell of “The Time-Poets:” if,
indeed, they could tell anything. Five years earlier, William Winstanley
had given forth his _Lives of the most famous English Poets_, in June,
1686; but he quotes not from it, and leaves us without an _Open Sesame_.
Even Oldys could not tell; or Thomas Hearne, who often had remembered
whatever Time forgot.

As to the date: we believe it was certainly written between 1620
(inclusive) and 1636; nearer the former year.

We reconcile ourselves for the failure, by turning to such other
and similar poetic groupings as survive. We listen unto Richard
Barnfield, when he sings sweetly his “Remembrance of some English
Poets,” in 1598. We cling delightedly to the words of our noble Michael
Drayton—whose descriptive map of native England, _Polyolbion_, glitters
with varie-coloured light, as though it were a mediæval missal: to
whom, enditing his Epistle to friend Henry Reynolds—“A Censure of the
Poets”—the Muses brought each bard by turn, so that the picture might be
faithful: even as William Blake, idealist and spiritual Seer, believed of
spirit-likenesses in his own experience. And, not without deep feeling
(marvelling, meanwhile, that still the task of printing them with
Editorial care is unattempted), we peruse the folio manuscripts of that
fair-haired minstrel of the Cavaliers, George Daniel of Beswick, while
he also, in his “Vindication of Poesie,” sings in praise of those whose
earlier lays are echoing now and always “through the corridors of Time:”—

  _Truth speaks of old, the power of Poesie;_
  _~Amphion~, ~Orpheus~, stones and trees could move;_
  _Men, first by verse, were taught Civilitie;_
  _’Tis known and granted; yet would it behove_
      _Mee, with the Ancient Singers, here to crowne_
      _Some later Quills, some Makers of our owne._

Nor should we fail to thank the younger Evelyn, for such graphic sketches
as he gives of Restoration-Dramatists, of Cowley, Dryden, Wycherley,
“Sedley and easy Etherege;” a new world of wits, all of whose works we
prize, without neglecting for their sakes the older Masters who “so did
take Eliza, and our James.”

Something that we could gladly say, will come in befittingly on
after-pages of this volume, in the “Additional Note on Sir John
Suckling’s ‘Sessions of the Poets,’” as printed in our _Merry Drollery,
Compleat_, page 72.

       *       *       *       *       *

Are we stumbling at the threshold, _absit omen!_ even amid our delight in
perusing “the Time-Poets,” when we wonder at the precise meaning of the
statement in our opening couplet?

  _One night the great ~Apollo~, pleas’d with ~Ben~,_
  _Made the odd number of the Muses ten._

By whom additional? Who is the lady, thus elevated? We see only one
solution: namely, that furnished by the conclusion of the poem. It was
the _Faerie Queene_ herself whom the God lifted thus, in honour of her
English Poets, to rank as the Tenth Muse, an equal with Urania, Clio,
Euterpe, and their sisterhood. Yet something seems wanting, next
to it; for we never reach a full-stop until the end of the 39th (or
_query_, the 40th) line; and all the confluent nominatives lack a common
verbal-action. Our mind, it is true, accepts intelligibly the onward
rush of each and all (but later, “with equal pace each of them softly
creeps”). It may be only grammatical pedantry which craves some such
phrase, absent from the text, as—

  [_While throng’d around his comrades and his peers,_
  _To list the ’sounding Music of the Spheres_:]

But, since a momentary rashness prompts us here to dare so much, as to
imagine the _hiatus_ filled, let us suppose that the lost sixteenth-line
ran someway thus (each reader being free to try experiments himself, with
chance of more success):—

  _Divine-composing ~Quarles~, whose lines aspire_
  [_And glow, as doth with like etherial fire_] 16th.
  _The April of all Poesy in ~May~,_
  _Who makes our English speak ~Pharsalia~;_

It is with some timidity we let this stand: but, as the text is left
intact, our friends will pardon us; and foes we never quail to meet. As
to BEN JONSON, see our “Sessions,” in Part iv. Of BEAUMONT and FLETCHER,
we write in the note on final page of _Choyce Drollery_, p. 100. Of
“Ingenious SHAKESPEARE” we need say no more than give the lines of
Richard Barnfield in his honour, from the _Poems in diuers humors_, 1598:—


  _Liue ~Spenser~ euer, in thy ~Fairy Queene~:_
  _Whose like (for deepe Conceit) was neuer seene._
  _Crownd mayst thou bee, vnto thy more renowne,_
  _(As King of Poets) with a Lawrell Crowne._

  _And ~Daniell~, praised for thy sweet-chast Verse:_
  _Whose Fame is grav’d in ~Rosamonds~ blacke Herse._
  _Still mayst thou liue: and still be honored,_
  _For that rare Worke, ~The White Rose and the Red~._

  _And ~Drayton~, whose wel-written Tragedies_
  _And sweet Epistles, soare thy fame to skies._
  _Thy learned Name, is æquall with the rest;_
  _Whose stately Numbers are so well addrest._

  _And ~Shakespeare~ thou, whose hony-flowing Vaine,_
  _(Pleasing the World) thy Praises doth obtaine._
  _Whose ~Venus~, and whose ~Lucrece~ (sweete and chaste)_
  _Thy Name in fames immortall Booke hath plac’t._
      _Liue euer you, at least in Fame liue euer:_
      _Well may the Bodye dye, but Fame dies neuer._

The praise of MASSINGER will not seem overstrained; although he never
affects us with the sense of supreme genius, as does Marlowe. The
recognition of GEORGE CHAPMAN’S grandeur, and the power with which this
recognition is expressed, show how tame is the influence of Massinger in
comparison. There need be little question that it was to Dekker’s mind
and pen we owe the nobler portion of the Virgin Martyr. Massinger, when
alongside of Marlow, Webster, and Dekker, is like Euripides contrasted
with Æschylus and Sophocles. We think of him as a Playwright, and
successful; but these others were Poets of Apollo’s own body-guard.
Drayton sings:

  _Next MARLOW, bathed in the ~Thespian~ springs,_
  _Had in him those brave translunary things_
  _That the first poets had, his raptures were_
  _All air and fire, which made his verses clear;_
  _For that fine madness still he did retain,_
  _Which rightly should possess a poet’s brain._

ROBERT DABORNE is chiefly interesting to us from his connection in
misfortunes and dramatic labours with Massinger and Nat Field; and
as joining them in the supplication for advance of money from Philip
Henslow, while they lay in prison. The reference to Daborne’s clerical,
as well as to his dramatic vocation, and to his having died (in Ireland,
we believe, leaving behind him sermons,) “Amphibion by the Ministry,”
confirms the general belief.

JO: SYLVESTER’S translation of Du Bartas, 1621; THOMAS MAY’S of Lucan’s
Pharsalia, GEORGE SANDYS’ of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, need little comment
here; some being referred to, near the end of our volume.

DUDLEY DIGGES (1612-43), born at Chilham Castle, near Canterbury (now the
seat of Charles S. Hardy, Esq.); son of Sir Dudley Digges, Master of the
Rolls, wrote a reverent Elegy for _Jonsonus Virbius_, 1638. L[eonard]
Digges had, fifteen years earlier, written the memorial lines beginning
“Shake-speare, at length thy pious fellows give || The World thy Workes:”
which appear at beginning of the first folio _Shakespeare_, 1623.

To SAMUEL DANIEL’S high merits we have only lately awakened: his
“Complaint of Rosamond” has a sustained dignity and pathos that deserve
all Barnfield’s praise; the “Sonnets to Delia” are graceful and
impressive in their purity; his “Civil Wars” may seem heavy, but the
fault lies in ourselves, if unsteady readers, not the poet: thus we
suspect, when we remember the true poetic fervour of his Pastoral,

  _O happy Golden Age!_

and his Description of Beauty, from Marino.

Of “Heroick DRAYTON” we write more hereafter: He grows dearer to us
with every year. His “Dowsabell” is on p. 73. Was his being coupled as
a “Poet-Beadle,” in allusion to his numerous verse-epistles, showing an
acquaintance with all the worthies of his day, even as his _Polyolbion_
gives a roll-call of the men, and a gazetteer of the England they made
illustrious? For, as shown in the _Apophthegmmes of Erasmus_, 1564, Booke
2nd, (p. 296 of the Boston Reprint,) it is “the proper office and dutie
of soche biddelles (who were called in latin _Nomenclators_) to have
perfecte knowlege and remembrance of the names, of the surnames, and of
the titles of dignitees of all persones, to the ende that thei maie helpe
the remembraunce of their maisters in the same when neede is.” To our day
the office of an Esquire Beddell is esteemed in Cambridge University.
But, we imagine, George Wither is styled a “Poets Beadle” with a very
different significance. It was the Bridewell-Beadles’ whip which he
wielded vigorously, in flagellation of offenders, that may have earned
him the title. See his “_Abuses Stript and Whipt_,” 1613, and turn to the
rough wood-cut of cart’s-tail punishment shown in the frontispiece to
_A Caueat or Warening for Common Cursetors, vulgarly called Vagabones_,
set forth by Thomas Harman, Esquier for the utilitie and profit of his
naturall country, &c., 1566, and later (Reprinted by E. E. Text Soc., and
in _O. B. Coll. Misc._, i. No. 4, 1871).

GEORGE WITHER was his own worst foe, when he descended to satiric
invective and pious verbiage. True poet was he; as his description of the
Muse in her visit to him while imprisoned in the Marshalsea, with almost
the whole of his “Shepherd’s Hunting” and “Mistress of Phil’arete,” prove
incontestibly. He is to be loved and pitied: although perversely he will
argue as a schismatick, always wrong-headed and in trouble, whichever
party reigns. To him, in his sectarian zeal or sermonizing platitudes—all
for our good, alas!—we can but answer with the melancholy Jacques: “I do
not desire you to please me. I do desire you to _sing_!”

“Pan’s Pastoral _Brown_” is, of course, WM. BROWNE, author of
“Britannia’s Pastorals.” Like JAMES SHIRLEY, last in the group of early
Dramatists, his precocious genius is remembered in the text. Regretting
that no painted or sculptured portrait of JOHN FORDE survives, we are
thankful for this striking picture of him in his sombre meditation. We
could part, willingly, with half of our dramatic possessions since the
nineteenth century began, to recover one of the lost plays by Ford. No
writer holds us more entirely captive to the tenderness of sorrow; no
one’s hand more lightly, yet more powerfully, stirs the affections, while
admitting the sadness, than he who gave us “The Broken Heart,” and “’Tis
pity she’s a whore.”

Not unhappily chosen is the epithet “The Squibbing MIDDLETON,” for he
almost always fails to impress us fully by his great powers. He warms
not, he enlightens not, with steady glow, but gives us fireworks instead
of stars or altar-burnings. We except from this rebuke his “Faire
Quarrel,” 1622, which shows a much firmer grasp and purpose, fascinating
us the while we read. Perhaps, with added knowledge of him will come
higher esteem.

Of THOMAS HEYWOOD the portrait is complete, every word developing a
feature: his fertility, his choice of subjects, and rubicund appearance.

Nor is the humourous sadness, of the figure shewn by the aged THOMAS
CHURCHYARD, less touching because it is dashed in with burlesque.
“Poverty and Poetry his Tomb doth enclose” (_Camden’s Remains_). His
writings extend from the time of Edward VI. to early in the reign of
James I. (he died in 1604); some of the poems in _Tottel’s Miscellany_,
1557, were claimed by him, but are not identified, and J. P. Collier
thought him not unlikely to have partly edited the work, His “Tragedie
of Shore’s Wife,” (best edit. 1698), in the _Mirror for Magistrates_,
surpasses most of his other poems; yet are there biographical details
in _Churchyard’s Chips_, 1575, that reward our perusal. Gascoigne and
several other poets added _Tam Marti quàm Mercurio_ after their names;
but Churchyard could boast thus with more truth as a Soldier. He says:—

  _Full thirty yeers, both Court and Warres I tryed,_
  _And still I sought acquaintaunce with the best,_
  _And served the Staet, and did such hap abyed_
  _As might befall, and Fortune sent the rest:_
  _When drom did sound, a souldier was I prest,_
      _To sea or lande, as Princes quarrell stoed,_
      _And for the saem, full oft I lost my blood._

But, throughout, misfortune dogged him:—

  _... To serve my torn [~i.e., turn~] in service of the Queen:_
  _But God he knoes, my gayn was small, I ween,_
      _For though I did my credit still encreace,_
      _I got no welth, by warres, ne yet by peace._

                         (C.’s Chips: _A Tragicall Discourse of the
                               unhappy man’s Life_; verses 9, 26.)

Of THOMAS DEKKER, or Decker (about 1575-1638), “_A priest in Apollo’s
Temple, many yeares_,” with his “Old Fortunatus,” both parts of his
“Honest Whore,” his “Satiromastix,” and “Gull’s Hornbook,” &c.,—which
take us back to all the mirth and squabbling of the day—we need add
no word but praise. We believe that a valuable clue is afforded by
the allusion in our text to the pamphlet “Dekker his Dreame,” 1620,
(reprinted by J. O. Halliwell, 1860.) We may be certain that “The
Time-Poets” was not written earlier than 1620, or any later than 1636 (or
probably than 1632), and before Jonson’s death.

Page 7. “_Rounce, Robble, Hobble, he that writ so big._”

In this 50th line the word “high” is evidently redundant (probably an
error in printer’s MS., not erased when the true word “big” was added):
we retain it, of course, though in smaller type; as in similar cases of
excess. But who was “_Rounce, Robble, Hobble_?” Most certainly it was
no other than RICHARD STANYHURST (1547-1618), whose varied adventures,
erudition, and eccentricities of verse combined to make him memorable.
His Hexameter translation of the _Æneis_ Books i-iv, appeared in 1583;
not followed by any more during the thirty-five years succeeding. Gabriel
Harvey praised him, in his “_Foure Letters_,” &c., although Thomas Nashe,
in 1592, declares that “Master Stanyhurst (though otherwise learned)
trod a foule, lumbring, boystrous, wallowing measure in his translation
of Virgil. He had never been praised by Gabriel [Harvey] for his labour,
if therein he had not been so famously absurd.” (_Strange Newes._) This
_Æneid_ had a limited reprint in 1839. Warton in _Hist. Eng. Poetry_
gives examples (misnaming him Robert) but Camden says “_Eruditissimus
ille nobilis Richardus Stanihurstus_.” In his preface to Greene’s
_Arcadia_, Nash quotes Stanyhurst’s description of a Tempest:—

  _Then did he make heauens vault to rebound_
      _With rounce robble bobble,_ [N.B.]
  _Of ruffe raffe roaring,_
      _With thicke thwacke thurly bouncing_:

and indicates his opinion of the poet, “as of some thrasonical
huffe-snuffe,” indulging in “that quarrelling kind of verse.” One more
specimen, to justify our text, regarding “he that writ so big:” in the
address to the winds, _Æn._, Bk. i., Neptune thus rails:—

  _Dare ye, lo, curst baretours, in this my Seignorie regal,_
  _Too raise such racks iacks on seas and danger unorder’d?_

The recent death of Stanyhurst, 1618, strengthens our belief that _the
Time-Poets_ was not later than 1620-32.

To WILLIAM BASSE we owe the beautiful epitaph on Shakespeare, printed
in 1633, “_Renowned ~Spencer~, lye a thought more nigh To learned
~Chaucer~_,” _etc._, and at least two songs (beside “Great Brittaine’s
Sunnes-set,” 1613), viz., the Hunter in his Career, beginning “Long ere
the Morn,” and one of the best Tom o’ Bedlam’s; probably, “Forth from my
sad and darksome cell.”

The name of JOHN SHANKE, here suggestively famous “for a jigg,” occurs in
divers lists of players (see J. P. C.’s _Annals of the Stage_, _passim_),
he having been one of Prince Henry’s Company in 1603. That he was also
a singer, we have this verse in proof, written in the reign of James I.
(_Bibliog. Acc._ i. 163):—

  _That’s the fat foole of the ~Curtin~,_
  _And the lean fool of the ~Bull~:_
  _Since ~Shanke~ did leave to sing his rimes_
  _He is counted but a gull._
  _The Players on the ~Banckeside~,_
  _The round ~Globe~ and the ~Swan~,_
  _Will teach you idle tricks of love,_
  _But the ~Bull~ will play the man._

                 (W. Turner’s _Common Cries of London Town_, 1662.)

“Broom” is RICHARD BROME (died 1652), whose racy comedies have been, like
Dekker’s, lately reprinted. The insinuation that Ben Jonson had “sent him
before to sweep the way,” alludes, no doubt, to the fact of Brome having
earlier been Jonson’s servant, and learning from his personal discourse
much of dramatic art. Neither was it meant nor accepted as an insult,
when, (printed 1632,) Jonson wrote (“according to Ben’s own nature and
custom, magisterial enough,” as their true friend Alexander Brome admits),

  _I had you for a Servant once, ~Dick Brome~;_
  _And you perform’d a Servant’s faithful parts:_
  _Now, you are got into a nearer room_
  _Of ~Fellowship~, professing my old Arts._
  _And you do doe them well, with good applause,_
  _Which you have justly gained from the Stage_, &c.

It is amusing to mark the survival of the old joke in our text, about
sweeping (it came often enough, in _Figaro in London_, &c., at the
time of the 1832 Reform Bill, as to Henry Brougham and Vaux); when we
see it repeated, almost literally, in reference to Alexander Pope’s
fellow-labourer on the Odyssey translation, the Rev. William Broome, of
our St. John’s College, Cambridge:—

  _~Pope~ came off clean with ~Homer~, but they say,_
  _~Broome~ went before, and kindly swept the way._

Leaving a few words on the matchless BEN himself for the “Sessions of the
Poets” Additional Note, we end this commentary on our book’s chief poem
with a few more stanzas from the Beswick Manuscript, by George Daniel,
(written in great part before, part after, 1647,) in honour of Ben
Jonson, but preceded by others relating to Sir Philip Sidney, Spenser,
Daniel, Drayton, Shakespeare, Beaumont, and Donne:—

  _I am not bound to honour antique names,_ [8th verse]
  _Nor am I led by other men to chuse_
  _Any thing worthy, which my judgment blames;_
  _Heare better straines, though by a later Muse;_
    _The sweet ~Arcadian~ singer first did raise_
    _Our Language current, and deserv’d his Baies._

  _That Lord of ~Penhurst~, ~Penhurst~ whose sad walls_
  _Yet mourne their master, in the ~Belgicke~ fray_
  _Untimely lost; to whose dear funeralls_
  _The ~Medwaie~ doth its constant tribute paye;_
    _But glorious ~Penhurst~, ~Medwaies~ waters once_
    _With ~Mincius~ shall, and ~Mergeline~ advance;_

  _The ~Shepherds Boy~; best knowen by that name_
  _~Colin~: upon his homely Oaten Reed._
  _With ~Roman Tityrus~ may share in ffame;_
  _But when a higher path hee strains to tread,_
    _This is my wonder: for who yet has seene_
    _Soe cleare a Poeme as his ~Faierie Queene~?_

  _The sweetest ~Swan of Avon~; to the faire_
  _And cruel ~Delia~, passionatelie sings:_
  _Other mens weaknesses and follies are_
  _Honour and Wit in him; each Accent brings_
    _A sprig to crowne him Poet; and contrive_
    _A Monument, in his owne worke to live._

  _~Draiton~ is sweet and smooth: though not exact,_
  _Perhaps to stricter Eyes; yet he shall live_
  _Beyond their Malice: to the Scene and Act,_
  _Read Comicke ~Shakespeare~; or if you would give_
    _Praise to a just Desert, crowning the Stage,_
    _See ~Beaumont~, once the honour of his Age._

  _The reverent ~Donne~; whose quill God purely fil’d,_
  _Liveth to his Character: so though he claim’d_
  _A greater glory, may not be exil’d_
  _This Commonwealth_, &c.

  _Here pause a little; for I would not cloy_ [verse 15]
  _The curious Eare, with recitations;_
  _And meerily looke at names; attend with joy,_
  _Unto an ~English~ Quill, who rivall’d once_
    _~Rome~, not to make her blush; and knowne of late_
    _Unenvied (’cause unequall’d) Laureate._

  _This, this was JONSON; who in his own name_
  _Carries his praise; and may he shine alone;_
  _I am not tyed to any generall ffame,_
  _Nor fixed by the Approbation_
    _Of great ones: But I speake without pretence_
    _Hee was of ~English~ Dramatiskes, the Prince._

Page 10. _Come, my White-head, let our Muses._

This was written by SIR SIMEON STEWARD, or Stewart. The numbers 1 and
2 of our text are twice incorrect in original, viz. the 10th and 14th
verses, each assigned to 1 (Red-head), whereas they certainly belong
to 2 (White-head). From third verse the figure “1” has unfortunately
dropt in printing. By aid of Addit. MS. No. 11, 811, p. 36, we are
enabled to correct a few other errors, some being gross corruptions of
sense; although, as a general rule, regarding poems that had appeared in
print, the private MS. versions abound with blunders of the transcriber,
additional to those of the original printer. It is, in the MS., entitled
“A Dialogue between _Pyrrotrichus_ and _Leucothrix_,” the latter taking
verses 2, 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, and the final verse, 14 (marked _Leuc_). His
earliest verse reads, in the MS., “_And higher, Rufus_, who would pass;
were _some_; 3rd. v. ’Tis _this_ that; 6th. The Roman _King who_; be
_lopt_; Ruddy _pates_; 8th v. Red like _unto_; _colour_; 9th. _Nay_ if;
doth _beare_ no; side _looks_ as fair; other _doth_ my; bear _my_ [?];
10th. _Therefore_, methinks; Besides, _of_ all the; 12th. N.B.—Yet _what
thy head must buy with_ yeares, Crosses; That _hath_ nature _giv’n_;
13th, be _two_ friendly peeres; let us _joyn_; make _one_ beauteous;
14th, [_Leucothrix_.] We _joyn’d_ our heads; beat them _to heart_ [i.e.
to boot]; Was _just_ but; _of_ our head.” In the Reresby Memoirs, we
believe, is mention of an ancestress, who, about 1619, married this (?)
“Sir Simeon Steward.”

Page 15. _A Stranger coming to the town._

In Wm. Hickes his _Oxford Drollery_, 1671, in Part 3rd, (“Poems made at
Oxford, long since”), p. 157, this Epigram appears, with variations. The
second verse reads: _But being there a little while,_ || _He met with
one so right_ || _That upon the ~French~ Disease_ || _It was his chance
to light._ The final couplet is:—_The ~French-man’s~ Arms are the sign
without,_ || _But the ~French-man’s~ harms are within._

Throughout the first half of the Seventeenth century the abundance of
Epigrams produced is enormous; whole volumes of them, divided into Books,
like J. Heywood’s, being issued by poets of whom nothing else is known,
except the name, unless Anthony à Wood has fortunately preserved some
record. These have not been systematically examined, as they deserve to
be. Amid much rubbish good things lie hid. Perhaps the Editor may have
more to say on them hereafter. Meanwhile, take this, by Robert Hayman, as
alike a specimen and a summary:—

             To the Reader:

  Sermons and Epigrams have a like end,
  To improve, to reprove, and to amend:
  Some passe without this vse, ’cause they are witty;
  And so doe many Sermons, more’s the pitty.

                             (_Quodlibets_, 1628, Book IV., p. 59.)

Page 20. _List, your Nobles, and attend._

This was (perhaps, by JOHN ELIOT,) certainly written in anticipatory
celebration of the event described, the Reception of Queen Henrietta
Maria by the citizens of London, 1625. The full title is this:—“The
Author intending to write upon the Duke of _Buckingham_, when he went
to fetch the Queen, prepared a new Ballad for the Fidlers, as might
hold them to sing between _Dover_ and _Callice_.” It is thus the poem
reappears, with some variations (beginning “_Now list, you Lordlings,
and attend_, || _Unto a Ballad newly penned_,” &c.,) among the “_Choyce
Poems, being Songs, Sonnets, Satyrs, and Elegies_. By the Wits of both
Universities, London,” &c., 1661, p. 83. This was merely the earlier
edition (of June, 1658), reissued with an irregular extra sheet at
beginning. The original title-page (two issued in 1658) was “_Poems or
Epigrams, Satyrs, Elegies, Songs and Sonnets, upon several persons and
occasions_. By no body must know whom, to be had every body knows where,
and for any body knows what. [MS. The Author John Eliot.] London, Printed
for Henry Brome, at the _Gun_ in Ivie Lane, 1658.” It is mentioned that
“These poems were given me neer sixteen years since [therefore about
1642] by a Friend of the Authors, with a desire they might be printed,
but I conceived the Age then too squeemish to endure the freedom which
the Author useth, and therefore I have hitherto smothered them, but being
desirous they should not perish, and the world be deprived of so much
clean Wit and Fancy, I have adventured to expose them to thy view; ...
The Author writes not pedantically, but like a gentleman; and if thou art
a gentleman of thy own making thou wilt not mislike it.”

Verse 9th. _Gondomar_ was the Spanish Ambassador at the Court of James
I., to whom, with his “one word” of “Pyrates, Pyrates, Pyrates,” we in
great part owe the slaughter of Raleigh. Of course, the date ’526, four
lines lower, is a blunder. The rash visit to Madrid was in March, 1623.

Title, and verse 8th. A _Jack-a-Lent_ was a stuffed puppet, set up to be
thrown at, during Lent. Perhaps it was a substitute for a live Cock; or
else the Cock-throwing may have been a later “improvement:” See Hone’s
_Every Day Book_, for an illustrated account, i. 249. Trace of the habit
survives in our modern “Old Aunt Sally,” by which yokels lose money
at Races (although Dorset Rectors try to abolish Country Fairs, while
encouragement is given to gambling at Chapel Bazaars with raffles for
pious purposes). In the _Merry Wives of Windsor_, Act iii. sc. 3, Mrs.
Page says to the boy, “You little _Jack-a-Lent_, have you been true to
us?” Quarles alludes to the practice:—

          _How like a ~Jack-a-Lent~_
  _He stands, for boys to spend their Shrove-tide throws,_
  _Or like a puppet made to frighten crows._

             (J. O. Halliwell’s _M. W. of W._, Tallis ed., p. 127.)

John Taylor (the Water-Poet) wrote a whim-wham entitled “_Jack a Lent:
his Beginning and Entertainment_,” about 1619, printed 1630; as “of
the Jack of Jacks, great Jack a Lent.” And Cleveland devoted thus a
Cavalier’s worn suit: “Thou shalt make _Jack-a-Lents_ and Babies first.”
(_Poems_, 1662, p. 56.)

Martin Llewellyn’s Song on Cock-throwing begins “Cock a doodle doe, ’tis
the bravest game;” in his _Men-Miracles_, &c., 1646, p. 61.

Page 31. _A Story strange I will you tell._

As to the burden (since some folks are inquisitive about the etymology of
Down derry down, or Ran-dan, &c.), we may note that in a queer book, _The
Loves of Hero and Leander_, 1651, p. 3, is a six-line verse ending thus:

  “_Oh, ~Hero~, ~Hero~, pitty me,_
  _With a dildo, dildo, dildo dee._”

By which we may guess that the Rope-dancer’s Song, in our text, was
probably written about, or even before, 1651. Some among us (the Editor
for one) saw Madame Sacchi in 1855 mount the rope, although she was
seventy years old, as nimbly as when the first Napoleon had been her
chief spectator. During the Commonwealth, rope-dancing and tumbling
were tolerated at the Red-Bull Theatre, while plays were prohibited.
See (Note to p. 210) our Introduction to _Westminster Drollery_, pp.
xv.-xx, and the Frontispiece reproduced from Kirkman’s “_Wits_,” 1673,
representing sundry characters from different “Drolls,” grouped together,
viz.: Falstaff and Dame Quickly, from “the Bouncing Knight;” the French
Dancing-Master, from the Duke of Newcastle’s “Variety,” Clause, from
Beaumont and Fletcher’s “Beggar’s Bush,” Tom Greene as Bubble the Clown
uttering “Tu Quoque” from John Cooke’s “City Gallant” (peeping through
the chief-entrance, reserved for dignitaries); also Simpleton the Smith,
and the Changeling, from two of Robert Cox’s favourite Drolls. We add
now, illustrative of practical suppression under the Commonwealth, a
contemporary record:—



  _The fourteenth of ~September~_
  _I very well remember,_
      _When people had eaten and fed well,_
  _Many men, they say,_
  _Would needs go see a Play,_
      _But they saw a great rout at the ~red Bull~._


  _The Soldiers they came,_
  _(The blind and the lame)_
      _To visit and undo the Players;_
  _And women without Gowns,_
  _They said they would have Crowns;_
      _But they were no good Sooth-sayers._


  _Then ~Jo: Wright~ they met,_
      _Yet nothing could get,_
  _And ~Tom Jay~ i’ th’ same condition:_
  _The fire men they_
  _Would ha’ made ’em a prey,_
      _But they scorn’d to make a petition._

  4. [p. 89.]

  _The Minstrills they_
  _Had the hap that day,_
      _(Well fare a very good token)_
  _To keep (from the chase)_
  _The fiddle and the case,_
      _For the instruments scap’d unbroken._


  _The poor and the rich,_
  _The wh... and the b...,_
      _Were every one at a losse,_
  _But the Players were all_
  _Turn’d (as weakest) to the wall,_
      _And ’tis thought had the greatest losse._ [? _cross._]

               (_Wit’s Merriment, or Lusty Drollery_, 1656, p. 88.)

One such raid on the poor actors (and probably at this very theatre,
the Red Bull, St. John’s Street, Clerkenwell) is recorded, as of 20th
December, 1649:—“Some Stage-players in St. John’s-Street were apprehended
by troopers, their clothes taken away, and themselves carried to prison”
(Whitelocke’s _Memorials_, 435, edit. 1733, cited by J. P. C., _Annals_,
ii. 118). It was a serious business, as we see from the Ordinance of
11 Feb., 1647-8; the demolishing of seats and boxes, the actors “to be
apprehended and openly and publicly whipt in some market town ... to
enter into recognizances with two sufficient sureties, never to act or
play any Play or Interlude any more,” &c.

As for the Light-skirts, so elegantly referred to in the Song now
reprinted (as far as we are aware, for the first time), they were
certainly not actresses, but courtezans frequenting the place to ensnare
visitors. Although English women did not _publicly_ perform until after
the Restoration, except on one occasion (of course, at Court Masques
and private mansions, the Queen herself and her ladies had impersonated
characters), yet so early as 8th November, 1629, some French professional
actresses vainly attempted to get a hearing at Blackfriars Theatre, and
a fortnight later at the Red Bull itself, as three weeks afterwards at
the Fortune. Evidently, they were unsuccessful throughout. We hear a good
deal about the far-more objectionable “Ladies of Pleasure,” who beset
all places of amusement. Thomas Cranley, addressing one such, in his
_Amanda_, 1635, describes her several alluring disguises and habits:—

  _The places thou dost usually frequent_
  _Is to some playhouse in an afternoon,_
  _And for no other meaning and intent_
  _But to get company to sup with soon;_
  _More changeable and wavering than the moon._
      _And with thy wanton looks attracting to thee_
      _The amorous spectators for to woo thee._

  _Thither thou com’st in several forms and shapes_
  _To make thee still a stranger to the place,_
  _And train new lovers, like young birds, to scrapes,_
  _And by thy habit so to change thy face;_
  _At this time plain, to-morrow all in lace:_
      _Now in the richest colours to be had;_
      _The next day all in mourning, black and sad._ &c.

Page 33. _Oh fire, fire, fire, where?_

Despite our repugnance to mutilate a text (see Introduction to
_Westminster Drollery_, p. 6; ditto to _Merry Drollery Compleat_, pp.
38, 39, 40; and that to our present volume, foot-note in section third),
a few letters have been necessarily suppressed in this piece of coarse
humour. Verse fourth, on p. 33, refers to Ben Jonson’s loss of valuable
manuscripts by fire, and his consequent “Execration upon Vulcan,” before
June, 1629; an event deeply to be regretted: also to the whimsical
account of the fire on London Bridge (see _Merry Drollery, Compleat_, pp.
87, 369, and Additional Note in present volume, tracing the poem to 1651,
and the event to 1633).

An amusing poem was written, by Thomas Randolph, on the destruction of
the Mitre Tavern at Cambridge, about 1630; it begins, “Lament, lament,
you scholars all.” (See _A Crew of kind London Gossips_, 1663, p. 72).

Page 38. _In Eighty Eight, ere I was born._

Also given later, in _Merry Drollery_, 1661, p. 77, and _Ditto,
Compleat_, p. 82 and 369. Compare the Harleian MS. version, No. 791,
fol. 59, given in our Appendix to _Westminster Drollery_, p. 38, with
note. The romance of _the Knight of the Sun_ is mentioned by Sir Tho.
Overbury in his _Characters_, as fascinating a Chambermaid, and tempting
her to turn lady-errant. “The book is better known under the title of
_The Mirror of Princely Deedes and Knighthood_, wherein is shewed the
worthinesse of The Knight of the Sunne, &c. It consists of nine parts,
which appear to have been published at intervals between 1585, and 1601.”
(_Lucasta_, &c., edit. 1864, p. 13.)

Page 40. _And will this Wicked World_, &c.

We never met this elsewhere: it was probably written either in 1605, or
almost immediately afterwards. Among Robert Hayman’s _Quodlibets_, 1628,
in Book Second, No. 49, is an Epigram (p. 27):—

Of the Gunpowder Holly-day, the 5th of November.

  _The ~Powder-Traytors~, ~Guy Vaux~, and his mates,_
  _Who by a Hellish plot sought Saints estates,_
  _Haue in our Kalendar vnto their shame,_
  _A ioyful ~Holy-day~ cald by their Name._

Jeremiah Wells has among his _Poems on Several Occasions_, 1667, one,
at p. 9, “On Gunpowder Treason,” beginning “_Hence dull pretenders unto
villany_,” which solemnly conjures up a picture of what might have ensued
if (what even Baillie Nicol Jarvie would call) the “awfu’ bleeze” had
taken place. [The same rare volume is interesting, as containing a Poem
on the Rebuilding of London, after the fire of 1666, p. 112, beginning
“What a Devouring Fire but t’other day!”]

With Charles Lamb, we have always regretted the failure of the Gunpowder
Plot. It would have been a magnificent event, fully equal to Firmillian’s
blowing up the Cathedral of St. Nicholas, at Badajoz; and the loss of
life to all the Parliament Members would have been a cheap price, if
paid, for such a remembrance. The worst of all is, that, having been
attempted, there is no likelihood of any subsequent repetition meeting
with better success. _Hinc illæ lachrymæ!_ Faux, Vaux, or Fawkes must
have been a noble, though slightly misguided, enthusiast; for he had
intended to perish, like Samson, with his victims. All good Protestants
now admire the Nazarite, although they bon-fire-raise poor Guido. But
then he failed in his work, while the other slayer of Philistines
attained success: which perhaps accounts for the different apotheosis. As
Lady Macbeth puts it: “The attempt, _and not the deed_, confounds us!”

Page 44. _A Maiden of the Pure Society._

A version of this epigram is among the MSS. at end of a volume of
“Various Poems,” in the British Museum: Press-mark, Case 39. a. These
have been printed by Fred. J. Furnival, Esq., for the Ballad Society,
as “Love Poems and Humorous Ones,” 1874. “A Puritane with one of hir
societie,” is No. 26, p. 22.

Page 52. _He that a Tinker_, &c.

This re-appears in the _Antidote against Melancholy_, 1661 p. 65; and,
with music, in the 1719 _Pills to p. Mel._, iii. 52

Page 55. _Idol of our Sex!_ &c.

This Lady Carnarvon was the wife of Robert Dormer, second Baron Dormer,
created Visc. Ascott, or Herld, and Earl of Carnarvon, 2d Aug., 1628.
Obiit 1643. He fell at the Battle of Newbury, 20th Sept. (See Clarendon’s
_History of the Rebellion_, Book vii. p. 350, edit. 1720, where his
merits are recognized.) Her name was Anna-Sophia, daughter of Philip,
Earl of Pembroke. The child mentioned in the poem was their son, Charles
Dormer, who died in 1709, when the Viscounty and Earldom became extinct.
The poem was written at his birth, on January 1st.

Page 57. _Uds bodykins! Chill work no more._

We find this, a year earlier, (an inferior version, lacking third verse,
but longer,) as _Cockbodykins, chill_, &c., in _Wit’s Interpreter_,
p. 143, 1655; and p. 247, 1671. It is a valuable, because trustworthy
and graphic, record of the troubles falling upon those who tried to
labour on, despite the stir of civil war. 4th verse, “that a vet,” seems
corruption of that is fetched; horses _in a hole_ (_W. Int._); vange thy
note, is _take thy note_. (_do_). Prob. date, 1647.


  _Then straight came ruffling to my dore,_
  _Some dozens of these rogues, or more;_
          _So zausie they be grown._
  _Facks[,] if they come, down they sit,_
  _They’l never ask me leave one whit,_
          _They’l take all for their own._

  _Then ich provision straight must make,_
  _And from my Chymney needs must take,_
          _And vlitch both pure and good._ [a flitch]
  _Oh! ’twould melt a Christians heart to see,_
  _That such good Bacon spoil’d should be,_
          _’Twas as red as any blood._

  _But in it would, whether chud or not,_
  _Together with Beans into the pot,_
          _As sweet as any viggs._
  _And when chave done all that I am able,_
  _They’l slat it down all under table,_
          _And zwear they be no Pigs._

  _Then Ize did intreat their worships to be quiet,_
  _And ich would strive to mend their diet,_
          _And they shall have finer feeding,_
  _They zwear goddam thee for a boor,_
  _Wee’l gick thee raskal out a door,_
          _And teach thee better breeding._

  _Then on the fire they [do] put on_
  _A piece of beef, or else good mutton,_
          _No, no, this is no meat._
  _Forsooth they must have finer food,_
  _A good vat hen with all her brood;_
          _And then perhaps they’l eat._

  _But of late ich had a crew together,_
  _They were meer devils, ich ask’d them whether_
          _That they were not of our nation._
  _Good Lord defend us from all zuch,_
  _They zaid they were wild ~Irish~, or else ~Dutch~,_
          _They were of the Devils generation._

  _And when these raskals went away,_
  _What e’re you thing they did me repay_
          _Ich will not you deceive._
  _Facks[,] just as folks go to a vaire,_
  _They vaidled up my goods and ware,_
          _And so they took their leave._

  _O what a clutter they did make_
  _Our house for ~Babel~ they did take,_
          _We could not understand a jot._
  _Yet they did know what did belong_
  _To drink and zwear in our own tongue,_
          _Such language they had a got._

  _Nor home ich any zafe aboad,_
  _If that Ise chance to go abroad,_
          _These rogues will come to spy me;_
  _Then zurrah, zurrah, quoth they, tarry,_
  _We know false letters you do carry,_
          _And so they come to try me._

  _For as swift as any lightning goes_
  _Straight all their hand into my hose,_
          _There out they pull my purse._
  _O zurrah, zurrah, this is it,_
  _Your Letters are in silver writ;_
          _You may go take your course._

  _A Trouper t’other day did greet me,_
  [ ... Lost line.]
          _But could you guesse the reason,_
  _Thou art, quoth he, a rebel, Knave,_
  _And zo thou dost thy zelf behave,_
          _For thou doest whistle treason._

  _Nor was this raskal much to blame,_
  _For all his mates zwore just the zame,_
          _That ich was fain to do._
  _Ich humble pardon of him sought,_
  _And gave him money for my fault,_
          _And glad I could scape so too._

                                (_Wits Interpreter_, 250, 1671 ed.)

This is, veritably, a “document in madness” of such civil wars and
military licence. It reads like the genuine narratives of Prussian
brutality and outrage during the occupation of Alsace and Lorraine: which
is hereafter to be bitterly avenged.

Page 60. _I keep my horse, I keep_, &c.

This lively ditty is sung by Latrocinio in the comedy of “The Widow,”
Act iii. sc. 1, produced about 1616, and written by JOHN FLETCHER, Ben
Jonson, and Thomas Middleton. The song bears trace of Fletcher’s hand
(more, we believe, than of Jonson’s). It has a rollicking freedom that
made it a favourite. We meet it in _Wit’s Interpreter_, 1655, p. 69;
1671, p. 175; and elsewhere. See Dyce’s _Middleton_, iii. 383, and
_Dodsley’s Old Plays_, 1744, vi. 34.

Page 61. _There is not halfe so warm a fire._

This re-appears, with variations and twelve additional lines (inferior),
in _Westminster-Drollery_, 1671, i. 102; where is the corrupt text “_and
~daily~ pays us with what is_.” Our present text gives us the true word,

Page 62. Fuller _of wish, than hope_, &c.

Fuller’s book, “A _Pisgah sight of Palestine_,” was published about 1649.
The epitaph “Here lies Fuller’s earth,” is well known. He died in 1661.

Page 63. Cloris, _now thou art fled away_.

The author of this song was DR. HENRY HUGHES. Henry Lawes gives the music
to it, in his “_Ayres_,” 1669, Bk. iii. p. 10. It is also in J. P.’s
_Sportive Wit_, 1656, p. 15; the _Loyal Garland_ (Percy Soc. Reprint
of 1686 edit, xxix. 67); _Pills to p. Mel._, 1719, iii. 331. Sometimes
attributed to Sir R[obert] A[ytoun].

In _Sportive Wit_ there are variations as well as an Answer, which
we here give. The different title seems consequent on the Answer
presupposing that _Amintas_ has not died, merely disappeared. It is
“A Shepherd fallen in Love: A Pastoral.” The readings are: _Lambkins
follow_; _They’re gone, they’re_; Dog _howling_ lyes, _While_ he _laments
with woful_ cryes; Oh _Cloris, Cloris, I decay_, And _forced am to cry
well_, _&c._ Sixth verse there omitted. It has, however, on p. 16:—

_The Answer._


  _~Cloris~, since thou art gone astray,_
  _~Amyntas~ Shepherd’s fled away;_
  _And all the joys he wont to spye_
  _I’ th’ pretty babies of thine eye,_
  _Are gone; and she hath none to say_
  _But who can help what ~will away, will away~?_

  _The Green on which it was her [? his] chance_
  _To have her hand first in a dance,_
  _Among the merry Maiden-crue,_
  _Now making her nought but sigh and rue_
  _The time she ere had cause to say_ [p. 17.]
  _Ah, who can help what ~will away, will away~?_

  _The Lawn with which she wont to deck_
  _And circle in her whiter neck;_
  _Her Apron lies behinde the door;_
  _The strings won’t reach now as before:_
  _Which makes her oft cry ~well-a-day~:_
  _But who can help what ~will away~?_

  _He often swore that he would leave me,_
  _Ere of my heart he could bereave me:_
  _But when the Signe was in the tail,_
  _He knew poor Maiden-flesh was frail;_
  _And laughs now I have nought to say,_
  _But who can help what ~will away~._

  _But let the blame upon me lie,_
  _I had no heart him to denie:_
  _Had I another Maidenhead,_
  _I’d lose it ere I went to bed:_
  _For what can all the world more say,_
  _Than who can help what ~will away~?_

                      (_Sportive Wit_; or, _The Muses’ Merriment_.)

Page 68. _I tell you all, both great and small._

Also in Captain William Hickes’ _London Drollery_, 1673, p. 179, where
it is entitled “Queen Elizabeth’s Song.” The dance tune _Sallanger’s_
(or more commonly _Sellenger’s_) _Round_ is given in Chappell’s Pop.
Music, O. T., p. 69. The name is corrupted from _St. Leger’s Round_; as
in Yorkshire the Doncaster race is called the Sillinger, or Sellenger, to
this day.

Page 70. _When ~James~ in ~Scotland~ first began._

Not yet found elsewhere, in MS. or print. The sixth verse refers to King
James the First making so many Knights, on insufficient ground, that he
incurred ridicule. Allusions are not infrequent in dramas and ballads.
Here is the most noteworthy of the latter. It is in Additional MS. No.
5,832, fol. 205, British Museum.

  Verses upon the order for making Knights of such persons who
  had £46 _per annum_ in King _James_ I.’s time.

  _Come all you farmers out of the country,_
    _Carters, plowmen, hedgers and all,_
  _~Tom~, ~Dick~ and ~Will~, ~Ralph~, ~Roger~ and ~Humfrey~,_
    _Leave off your gestures rusticall._
  _Bidd all your home-sponne russetts adue,_
  _And sute your selves in fashions new;_
    _Honour invites you to delights:_
    _Come all to Court and be made Knights_.


  _He that hath fortie pounds ~per annum~_
    _Shalbe promoted from the plowe:_
  _His wife shall take the wall of her grannum,_
    _Honour is sould soe dog-cheap now._
  _Though thow hast neither good birth nor breeding,_
  _If thou hast money, thow art sure of speeding._


  _Knighthood in old time was counted an honour,_
    _Which the best spiritts did not disdayne;_
  _But now it is us’d in so base a manner,_
    _That it’s noe creditt, but rather a staine:_
  _Tush, it’s noe matter what people doe say,_
  _The name of a Knight a whole village will sway._


  _Shepheards, leave singing your pastorall sonnetts,_
    _And to learne complements shew your endeavours:_
  _Cast of[f] for ever your two shillinge bonnetts,_
    _Cover your coxcombs with three pound beavers._
  _Sell carte and tarrboxe new coaches to buy,_
    _Then, “Good your Worship,” the vulgar will cry._


  _And thus unto worshipp being advanced,_
    _Keepe all your tenants in awe with your frownes;_
  _And let your rents be yearly inhaunced,_
    _To buy your new-moulded maddams new gowns._
  _~Joan~, ~Sisse~, and ~Nell~ shalbe all ladified,_
  _Instead of hay-carts, in coaches shall ryde._


  _Whatever you doe, have a care of expenses,_
    _In hospitality doe not exceed:_
  _Greatnes of followers belongeth to princes:_
    _A Coachman and footmen are all that you need:_
  _And still observe this, let your servants meate lacke,_
    _To keep brave apparel upon your wives backe._

[Additional stanza from Mr. Hunter’s MS.]


  _Now to conclude, and shutt up my sonnett,_
    _Leave of the Cart-whip, hedge-bill and flaile,_
  _This is my counsell, think well upon it,_
    _Knighthood and honour are now put to saile._
  _Then make haste quickly, and lett out your farmes,_
  _And take my advice in blazing your armes._
    _Honor invites, &c._

(Shakespeare Soc., 1846, pp. 145-6, J. O. Halliwell’s Commentary on Merry
Wives of Windsor, Act. ii. sc. 1, “These Knights will hack.” Also his
notes in Tallis’s edit., of the same, n. d., pp. 122-3. William Chappell,
in _Pop. Music O. T._, p. 327, gives the tune.)

Page 72. _The Chandler drew near his end._

Another tolerable Epigram on a Chandler meets us, beginning “How might
his days end that made weeks [wicks]?” among the Epitaphs of _Wits
Recreations_, 1640-5 (Reprint, p. 271).

Page 73. _Farre in the Forrest of Arden._

This is one of MICHAEL DRAYTON’S Pastorals, printed in 1593, in the
Third Eclogue, and entitled _Dowsabell_. See _Percy’s Reliques_, vol. i.
bk. 3, No. 8, 2nd edit. 1767, for remarks on variations, amounting to a
remodelling, of this charming poem. We are glad to know that Mr. James
Russell Smith is preparing a new edition of Michael Drayton’s voluminous
works, to be included in the _Library of Old Authors_. Drayton suppressed
his couplet poem of “Endimion and Phœbe:” _Ideas Latmvs_. It has no date,
but was cited by Lodge in 1595, and has been reprinted by J. P. Collier;
one of his handsome and carefully printed quartos, a welcome boon.

Page 78. _On the twelfth day of ~December~._

This ballad, a very early example of the _Down down derry_ burden, is not
yet found elsewhere. It refers to the expedition against Scotland (then
in alliance with Henry II. of France) made by the Protector, Edward, Duke
of Somerset, in 1547, the first (not “fourth”) year of Edward VIth’s
reign. The battle was fought on the “Black Saturday,” as it was long
remembered, the tenth day of September (not of “December,” as the ballad
mis-states it to have been). Terrible and remorseless was the slaughter
of the ill-armed Scots, after they had imprudently abandoned their
excellent hilly position, by the well-appointed English horsemen. The
prisoners taken amounted to about fifteen hundred (“we found above twenty
of their villains to one of their gentlemen,” says Patten), among whom
was the Earl of Huntley, Lord Chancellor of Scotland, who on the previous
day had sent a personal challenge to Somerset, asking to decide the
contest by single combat: an offer which was not unreasonably declined,
the Protector declaring that he desired no peace but such as he might
win by his sword. “And thou, trumpet,” he told Huntley’s herald, “say to
thy master, he seemeth to lack wit to make this challenge to me, being
of such estate by the sufferance of God as to have so weighty a charge
of so precious a jewel, the government of a King’s person, and then the
protection of all his realms.” We learn that the Scots slain were tenfold
the number of the prisoners taken. This battle of “Muskleburgh Field”
(nearly the same locality as the battle of Prestonpans, wherein Prince
Charles Edward in 1745 defeated Colonel Gardiner and his English troops),
known also as of Fawside Brae, or of Pinkie, is described with unusual
precision by an eye-witness: See _The Expedition into Scotland of the
most worthily-fortunate Prince Edward Duke of Somerset_, uncle to our
most noble Sovereign Lord the King’s Majesty Edward the VI., &c., made
in the first year of his Majesty’s most prosperous reign, and set out by
way of Diary, by W. Patten, Londoner. First published in 1548, this was
reprinted in Dalyell’s _Fragments of Scottish History_, Edinburgh, 1798.
This old ballad is not included by Dalyell, who probably knew not of its

Page 80. _In ~Celia~[’s face] a question did arise._

By THOMAS CAREW, written before 1638. In Addit. MSS. No. 11,811, fol. 10;
No. 22,118, fol. 43; also in _Wits Recreations_ (Repr., p. 19); Roxb.
Libr. Carew, p. 6, &c.

Page 81. _Blacke Eyes, in your dark Orbs doe lye._

By JAMES HOWELL, Historiographer to Charles II., and author of the
celebrated _Epistolæ Ho-Elianæ_, 1645, 1647, 1650, and 1655. He died in
November, 1666; according to Anthony à Wood, (whose account of him in
the _Athenæ Oxonienses_, iii. 744, edit. 1817, is given by Edward Arber
in his excellent _English Reprints_, vol. viii, 1869, with a welcome
promise of editing the said _Epistolæ_). This poem of “Black eyes,” &c.,
occurs among Howell’s poems collected by Sergeant-Major Peter Fisher, p.
68, 1663; again re-issued (the same sheets) as _Mr. Howell’s Poems upon
divers Emergent Occasions_; Printed by James Cottrel, and dated 1664.” It
is also found in C. F.’s “_Wit at a Venture; or, ~Clio’s~ Privy Garden_,
containing Songs and Poems on Several Occasions, Never before in Print”
(which statement is incorrect, as usual). Our text is the earliest we
know in type. The only variations, in _Howell’s Poems_, are: 1st line,
_doth_ lie; 4th verse, And by _those spells I am_ possest.

Page 83. _We read of Kings, and Gods, &c._

This is another of the charming poems by THOMAS CAREW, always a favourite
with his own generation (few MS. or printed Collections being without
many of them), and deserving of far more affectionate perusal in our own
time than he generally meets. It is in Addit. MS. No. 11, 811, fol. 6b.,
entitled there “His Love Neglected.” Elsewhere, as “A Cruel Mistress.”

Page 84. _What ill luck had I, Silly Maid_, &c.

Although closely resembling the Catch “_What Fortune had I, poor Maid as
I am_,” of 1661 _Antidote ag. Melancholy_, p, 74, and _Merry Drollery_
ii. 152 (equal to p. 341 of editions 1670 and 1691), this song is
virtually distinct, and probably was the earlier version in date. One has
been evidently borrowed or adapted from the other.

Page 85. _I never did hold all that glisters_, &c.

This vigorous expression of opinion from a robust nature, uncorrupted
amid a conventionalized, treacherous, and selfishly-cruel community, is
a valuable record of the true Cavalier “all of the olden time.” We have
never met it elsewhere. He has no half-likings, no undefined suspicions,
and admits of no paltering with the truth, or shirking of one’s duty. As
we read we behold the honest man before us, and remember that it was such
as he who made our England what she is:—

  _Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,_
  _I see the Lords of human kind pass by._

The contemplation of such brave spirits may help to nerve fresh readers
to emulate their virtues, despite the sickly fancies or grovelling
politics and social theories of degenerate days. The singer may be
somewhat overbearing in announcement of his preferences:

            ——_Just this_
  _Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,_
  _Or there exceed the mark_,—

But, if he errs at all, it is on the safe side.

Page 88. _No Gypsie nor no Blackamore._

Composers and arrangers of such collections as this Drollery seem to have
often chosen pieces simply for contrast. Thus, after the manly directness
of “The Doctor’s Touchstone,” we find the vilely mercenary husband
here exhibited, and followed by the truthful description (justifiable,
although coarsely outspoken) of “The baseness of Whores.” Such were they
of old: such are they ever.

Page 92. _Let not Sweet Saint_, &c.

Like the three preceding poems, not yet found elsewhere, but worthy of

Page 93. _How happy’s that Prisoner._

Written “by a Person of Quality:” whom we suspect to have been SIR
FRANCIS WORTLEY, but without evidence to substantiate the guess. This is
the earliest appearance in print, known to us, of this characteristic
outburst of Cavalier vivacity, which re-appears as the Musician’s Song,
in “_Cromwell’s Conspiracy_,” 1660, Act iii. sc. 2; and _Merry Drollery_,
1661, p. 101. (See also _M. D. C._, pp. 107, 373). As to the introduction
of the several ancient philosophers (referred to in former Appendix, p.
373), compare the delightful _Chanson a Boire_,

  _Je cherche en vin la vérité,_
    _Si le vin n’aide à ma foiblesse,_
  _Toute la docte antiquité_
    _Dans le vin puisa la sagesse,_
  _Oui c’est par le bon vin que le bon sens éclate,_
    _J’en atteste_ Hypocrate,
        Qui dit qu’il fait a chaque mois
        Du moins s’enivrer une fois, _&c._

(The other twelve verses are given complete in “_Brallaghan; or, the
Deipnosophists_,” 1845, pp. 198-203, with a clever verse-translation,
by the foremost of linguistic scholars now alive—the friend of Talfourd
and of Dr. W. Maginn—at whom many nowadays presume to scoff, and whom
Benchers defame and banish themselves from.)

Page 97. _Fire! Fire! O how I burn, &c._

Also in _Windsor Drollery_, 1672, p. 126, as “Fire! Fire! _lo here_ I
burn in my desire,” &c. And in Henry Bold’s _Latine Songs_, 1685, p. 139,
where it is inserted, to be alongside of this parody on it by him, song
xlvii., or a



    _Fire, Fire,_
  _Is there no help for thy desire?_
    _Are tears all spent? Is ~Humber~ low?_
    _Doth ~Trent~ stand still? Doth ~Thames~ not flow?_
    _Though all these can’t thy Feaver cure,_
    _Yet ~Tyburn~ is a Cooler lure,_
  _And since thou can’st not quench thy Fire,_
  _Go hang thy self, and thy desire!_


    _Fire, fire,_
  _Here’s one [still] left for thy desire,_
    _Since that the Rainbow in the skye,_
    _Is bent a deluge to deny,_
    _As loth for thee a God should Lye._
      _Let gentle Rope come dangling down,_
      _One born to hang shall never drown,_
  _And since thou can’st not quench the Fire,_
  _Go hang thy self, and thy desire!_

                                    (_Latine Songs_, 1685, p. 140.)

Page 98. _’Tis not how witty, nor how free._

A year earlier, this had appeared in _Wit’s Interpreter_, 1655, p. 4
(1671, p. 108), entitled “What is most to be liked in a Mistress.” Robt.
Jamieson quotes it, from _Choyce Drollery_, in his _Pop. Bds._, 1806, ii.
309. We believe it to be by the same author as the poem next following,
and regret that they remain anonymous. Both are of a stately beauty, and
recall to us those Cavalier Ladies with whose portraits Vandyck adorned
many family mansions.

Page 99. _She’s not the fairest of her name._

One clue, that may hereafter guide us to the authorship, we know the
lady’s name. It was FREEMAN. This poem also had appeared a year earlier,
at least, in _Wit’s Interpreter_, 1655, p. 55 (; 1671 ed., p. 161). Also
in _Wit and Drollery_, 1661, p. 162; in _Oxford Drollery_, part ii. 1671,
p. 87; and in _Loyal Garland_, 1686, as “The Platonick Lover” (reprinted
by Percy Soc., xxix. 64). There should be a comma in fifth line, after
the word Constancy. Various readings:—Verse 2, _meanest_ wit; and _yet_
a; 3, His _dear_ addresses; walls be _brick_ or stone.

Page 100. _’Tis late and cold, stir up the fire._

This Song, by JOHN FLETCHER, in his _Lover’s Progress_, Act iii. sc. 1.,
before 1625. The music is found in Additional MS. No. 11,608 (written
about 1656), fol. 20; there called “Myne Ost’s Song, sung in _ye Mad
Lover_ [wrong: a different play], set by Robt. Johnson.” It re-appears in
_Wit and Drollery_ 1661, p. 212; in the _Academy of Complements_, 1670,
p. 175, &c. It is the Song of the Dead Host, whose return to wait upon
his guests and ask their aid to have his body laid in consecrated ground,
is so humorously described. His forewarnings of death to Cleander are,
to our mind, of thrilling interest. These scenes were Sir Walter Scott’s
favourites; but Leigh Hunt, perversely, could see no merit in them. We
believe that the tinge of sepulchral dullness in Mine Host enhances the
vividness of the incidents, like the taciturnity of Don Guzman’s stony
statue in Shadwell’s “Libertine.”

Thus the hundred-paged volume of _Choyce Drollery_, 1656,—“Delicates
served up by frugall Messes, as aiming at thy satisfaction not
saciety,”—comes to an end, with Beaumont and Fletcher. On them
remembrance loves to rest, as the fitting representatives of that class
of courtly gentlemen, poets, wits, and scholars, who were, to a great
extent, even then, fading away from English society. To them had been
visible no phase of the Rebellion, and they probably never conceived
that it was near. Beaumont, with his statelier reserve, and his tendency
to quiet musing, fostered “under the shade of melancholy boughs” at
Grace-Dieu, had early passed away, honoured and lamented; a month before
his friend Shakespeare went to rest: Shakespeare, who, having known half
a century of busy life, felt contented, doubtless, to fulfil the wish
that he had long before expressed, himself, almost prophetically:—

              _“Let me not live,”—_
  _Thus his good melancholy oft began, ..._
  _“After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff_
  _Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses_
  _All but new things disdain; whose judgments are_
  _Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies_
  _Expire before their fashions:”—this he wished._

Fletcher survived nine years, and battled on with somewhat of spasmodic
action; at once widowed and orphaned by the death of his close friend
and work-fellow; winning fresh triumphs, it is true, and leaving many
a trace of his bright genius like a gleam of heaven’s own light across
the sadness and corruption of an imaginary world, that was not at all
unreal in heroism or in wickedness. He also passed away while young; a
few months later than the time when Charles the First came to the throne,
suddenly elevated by the death of his father James, bringing abruptly to
a consummation that marriage with the French Princess which did so much
to lead him and his country into ruin. The year 1625 was the separating
date between the autumnal ripeness and the chill of fruitless winter. A
sunny glow remains on Fletcher to the last. With him it fades, and the
world that he had known is changed.

[End of Notes to _Choyce Drollery_.]



  _Gratiano._—“Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
               Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice
               By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio,—
               I love thee, and it is my love that speaks;—
               There are a sort of men, whose visages
               Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,
               And do a wilful stillness entertain,
               With purpose to be dress’d in an opinion
               Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
               As who should say, ‘I am Sir Oracle,
               And, when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!’”

                              (_Merchant of Venice_, Act i. sc. 1.)

We have already, in a brief Introduction, (pp. 105-110), explained our
reason for adding all that was necessary to complete this work; a large
portion having been anticipated in _Merry Drollery_ of the same year,
1661. In the Postscript (pp. 161-165), we endeavoured to trace the
authorship of the entire collection; leaving to these following notes,
and those attached to _M. Drollery, Compleat_, the search for separate
poems or songs. Also, on pp. 166-175, we traced the history of “Arthur o’
Bradley,” delaying the important song of his Wedding (from an original of
the date 1656), unto Part IV. of our _Appendix_.

To no other living writer are we lovers of old literature more deeply
indebted than to the veteran John Payne Collier, who is now far
advanced in his eighty-seventh year, and whose intellect and industry
remain vigorously employed at this great age: one proof of the fact
being his new edition of Shakespeare (each play in a separate quarto,
issued to private subscribers), begun in January, 1875, and already
the Comedies are finished, in the third volume. Among his numerous
choice reprints of rare originals, his series of the more than “_Seven
Early Poetical Miscellanies_” was a work of greatest value. To these,
with his new “_Shakespeare_,” the interesting “_Old Man’s Diary_,” his
“_Bibliographical and Critical Account of the Rarest Books in the English
Language_,” his “_Annals of the Stage_,” “_The Poetical Decameron_,”
his charming “_Book of Roxburghe Ballads_,” 1847, his “_Broadside
Black-Letter-Ballads_,” 1868, and other labours, no less than to his
warmth of heart and friendly encouragement by letters, the present Editor
owes many happy hours, and for them makes grateful acknowledgment.

About the year 1870, J. P. Collier issued to private subscribers his
very limited and elegant Reprint, in quarto, of “_An Antidote against
Melancholy_,” 1661. This is already nearly as unattainable as the

J. P. Collier gave no notes to his Reprint of the “Antidote,” but, in the
brief Introduction thereunto, he mentioned that:—“This poetical tract has
been selected for our reprint on account of its rarity, the excellence
of the greater part of its contents, the high antiquity of some of
them, and from the fact that many of the ballads and humorous pieces of
versification are either not met with elsewhere, or have been strangely
corrupted in repetition through the press. Two or three of them are used
by Shakespeare, and the word ‘incarnadine’ [see our p. 148] is only found
in ‘Macbeth’ (A. ii., sc. 2), in Carew’s poems, and in this tract: here
we have it as the name of a red wine; and nobody hitherto has noticed it
in that sense.

“When Ritson published his ‘Robin Hood’ in 1795, he relied chiefly upon
the text of the famous ballad of ‘Arthur o’ Bradley,’ as he discovered
it in the miscellany before us [See our _Merry Drollery, Compleat_, pp.
312, 399; also, in present volume, p. 166, and Additional Note]; but,
learned in such matters as he undoubtedly was, he was not aware of the
very early period at which ‘Arthur o’ Bradley’ was so popular as to be
quoted in one of our Old Moralities, which may have been in existence in
the reigns of Henry VI. or Henry VII., which was acted while Henry VIII.
or Edward VI. were on the throne, and which is contained in a manuscript
bearing the date of 1579.

“The few known copies of ‘An Antidote against Melancholy’ are dated 1661,
the year after the Restoration, when lawless licence was allowed both to
the press and in social intercourse; and, if we permitted ourselves to
mutilate our originals, we might not have reproduced such coarseness;
but still no words will be found which, even a century afterwards, were
not sometimes used in private conversation, and which did not even
make their appearance at full length in print. Mere words may be said
to be comparatively harmless; but when, as in the time of Charles II,
they were employed as incentives to vice and laxity of manners, they
become dangerous. The repetition of them in our day, in a small number
of reprints, can hardly be offensive to decorum, and unquestionably
cannot be injurious to public morals. We always address ourselves to the
students of our language and habits of life.”

Page 113 (original, p. 1). _Not drunken, nor sober, &c._

Joseph Ritson gave this Bacchanalian chant in the second volume of his
“English Songs,” p. 58, 1783. Forty-six verses, out of the seventy, had
been repeated in the “Collection of Old Ballads,” 1723-25, (which Ambrose
Philips and David Mallet may have edited,) “The Ex-Ale-tation of Ale” is
in vol. iii. p. 166. Part, if not all, must have been in existence fully
ten years before it appeared in the “Antidote,” as we find “O Ale _ab
alendo_, thou Liquor of life!” with music by John Hilton, in his “Catch
that Catch Can,” p. 5, 1652. It is also in _Wit’s Merriment; or, Lusty
Drollery_, 1656, p. 118; eight verses only. These are: 1. Not drunken;
2. But yet to commend it; 3. But yet, by your leave; 4. It makes a man
merry; 5. The old wife whose teeth; 6. The Ploughman, the Lab’rer; 7. The
man that hath a black blous to his wife; 8. With that my friend said,
&c. Still earlier, the poem had appeared, imperfectly, in a four-paged
quarto pamphlet, dated 1642 (along with “The Battle fought between the
Norfolk Cock and the Wisbeach Cock,” see _M. D. C._, p. 242) as by THOMAS
RANDALL, i.e. RANDOLPH. Accordingly, it has been included (34 verses
only) in the 1875 edition of his Works, p. 662. We personally attach
no weight to the pamphlet’s ascription of it to Randolph, (who died in
March, 1634-5). It is far more likely to have been the work of SAMUEL
ROWLANDS, in whose _Crew of Kind London Gossips_, 1663, we meet it, p.
129-141, and whose style it more closely resembles. Some poems duly
assigned to Randolph are in the same volume, but the “Exaltation of Ale”
is _not_ thus distinguished. There are seventy-two verses given, and the
motto is _Tempus edax rerum, &c._ We have not been able to consult an
earlier edition of S. Rowland’s “_Crew_,” &c., about 1650.

So long afterwards as 1788, we find an abbreviated copy of the song, six
verses, in Lackington’s “British Songster,” p. 202, entitled “A Tankard
of Ale.” The first verse runs thus:—

  “_Not drunk, nor yet sober, but brother to both,_
    _I met with a man upon Aylesbury Vale,_
  _I saw in his face that he was in good case_
    _To go and take part of a tankard of ale._”

Omitting all sequence of narrative, the other verses are adapted from the
_Antidote’s_ 21st, 19th, 10th, 26th, and 50th; concerning the hedger,
beggar, widow, clerk, and amicable conclusion over a tankard of ale. In a
_Convivial Songster_, of 1807, by Tegg, London, these six are given with
addition of another as fifth:—

  _The old parish Vicar, when he’s in his liquor,_
    _Will merrily at his parishioners rail,_
  _“Come, pay all your tithes, or I’ll kiss all your wives,”_
    _When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale._

It had appeared in a Chap-book (circa 1794, according to Wm. Logan; see
his amusing “Pedlar’s Pack,” pp. 224-6), with other five verses inserted
before the Finale. We give them to complete the tale:—

  _There’s the blacksmith by trade, a jolly brisk blade,_
    _Cries, “Fill up the bumper, dear host, from the pail;”_
  _So cheerful he’ll sing, and make the house ring,_
    _When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale._
            _Laru la re, laru, &c. So cheerful, &c._

  _There’s the tinker, ye ken, cries “old kettles to mend,”_
    _With his budget and hammer to drive in the nail;_
  _Will spend a whole crown, at one sitting down,_
    _When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale._
            _Laru, &c._

  _There’s the mason, brave ~John~, the carver of stone,_
    _The Master’s grand secret he’ll never reveal;_
  _Yet how merry is he with his lass on his knee,_
    _When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale._
            _Laru, &c._

  _You maids who feel shame, pray me do not blame,_
    _Though your private ongoings in public I tell;_
  _Young ~Bridget~ and ~Nell~ to kiss will not fail_
    _When once they shake hands with a tankard of ale._
            _Laru, &c._

  _There’s some jolly wives, love drink as their lives,_
    _Dear neighbours but mind the sad thread of my tale;_
  _Their husbands they’ll scorn, as sure’s they were born,_
    _If once they shake hands with a tankard of ale._
            _Laru, &c._

  _From wrangling or jangling, and ev’ry such strife,_
    _Or anything else that may happen to fall;_
  _From words come to blows, and sharp bloody nose,_
    _But friends again over a tankard of ale._
            _Laru, &c._

Notice the characteristic mention of William Elderton, the Ballad-writer
(who died before 1592), in the thirty-third verse (our p. 119):—

  _For ballads Elderton never had peer;_
    _How went his wit in them, with how merry a gale,_
  _And with all the sails up, had he been at the cup,_
    _And washed his beard with a pot of good ale._

William Elderton’s “New Yorkshire Song, intituled _Yorke, Yorke, for my
Monie_,” (entered at Stationers’ Hall, 16 November, 1582, and afterwards
“Imprinted at London by Richard Iones; dwelling neere Holbourne Bridge:
1584),” has the place of honour in the Roxburghe Collection, being the
first ballad in the first volume. It consequently takes the lead in the
valuable “Roxburghe Bds.” of the Ballad Society, 1869, so ably edited
by William Chappell, Esq., F.S.A. It also formed the commencement of
Ritson’s _Yorkshire Garland_: York, 1788. It is believed that Elderton
wrote the “excellent Ballad intituled The Constancy of Susanna” (Roxb.
Coll., i. 60; Bagford, ii. 6; Pepys, i. 33, 496). A list of others was
first given by Ritson; since, by W. C. Hazlitt, in his _Handbook_, p.
177. Elderton’s “Lenton Stuff ys come to the town” was reprinted by
J. O. Halliwell, for the Shakespeare Society, in 1846 (p. 105). He
gives Drayton’s allusion to Elderton in Notes to Mr. Hy. Huth’s “79
Black-Letter Ballads,” 1870, 274 (the “Praise of my Ladie Marquess,”
by W. E., being on pp. 14-16). Elderton had been an actor in 1552; his
earliest dated ballad is of 1559, and he had ceased to live by 1592.
Camden gives an epitaph, which corroborates our text, in regard to the
“thirst complaint” of the balladist:—

  _Hic situs est sitiens, atque ebrius Eldertonus—_
  _Quid dico—Hic situs est? his potius sitis est._

Thus freely rendered by Oldys:—

  _Dead drunk here Elderton doth lie;_
  _Dead as he is, he still is dry;_
  _So of him it may well be said,_
  _Here he, but not his thirst, is laid._

A MS., time of James I., possessed by J. P. Collier, mentions, in further

  _~Will Elderton’s~ red nose is famous everywhere,_
  _And many a ballet shows it cost him very dear;_
  _In ale, and toast, and spice, he spent good store of coin,_
  _You need not ask him twice to take a cup of wine._
  _But though his nose was red, his hand was very white,_
  _In work it never sped, nor took in it delight;_
  _No marvel therefore ’tis, that white should be his hand,_
  _That ballets writ a score, as you well understand._

(See Wm. Chappell’s Popular Music of the Olden Time, pp. 107, 815; and
J. P. Collier’s Extracts from Reg. Stat. Comp., _passim_, Indices, art.
Elderton; and his Bk. of Roxb. Bds., p. 139.)

Page 125 (orig. 14). _With an old Song, made by, &c._

The fashion of disparaging the present, by praising the customs and
people of days that have passed away, is almost as old as the Deluge, if
not older. Homer speaks of the degeneracy in his time, and aged Israel
had long earlier lamented the few and evil days to which his own life
extended, in comparison with those patriarchs who had gone before him.
Even as we know not the full value of the Mistress or the friend whose
affection had been given unto us, until separated from them, for ever, by
estrangement or the grave, so does it seem to be with many customs and
things. Robert Browning touchingly declares:—

  _And she is gone; sweet human love is gone!_
  _’Tis only when they spring to heaven that angels_
  _Reveal themselves to you; they sit all day_
  _Beside you, and lie down at night by you_
  _Who care not for their presence, muse or sleep,_
  _And all at once they leave you, and you know them!_

Modified in succeeding reigns, the ballad of “The Queen [Elizabeth]’s
Old Courtier, and A New Courtier of the King [James]” has already known
two hundred and fifty years’ popularity. The earliest printed copy was
probably issued by T. Symcocke, by or after 1626. We find it in several
books about the time of the Restoration, when parodies became frequent.
It is in _Le Prince d’Amour_, 1660, p. 161; _Wit and Drollery_, 1682
(not in 1656, 1661 edits.), p. 278, “With an old Song,” _&c._; _Wit
and Mirth_, 1684, p. 43; _Dryden’s Misc. Poems_ (ed. 1716, iv. 108);
with the Music, in _Pills_, iii. 271; in _Philomel_, 130, 1744; Percy’s
_Reliques_, ii. Bk. 3, No. 8, 1767; Ritson’s _English Sgs._, ii. 140, and
Chappell’s _Pop. Music_, p. 300, to which refer for a good introduction,
with extract from Pepys Diary of 16th June, 1668. Accompanying a Parody
by T. Howard, Gent. (beginning similarly, “An Old Song made of an old
aged pate”), it meets us in the Roxburghe Coll., iii. 72, printed for F.
Coles (1646-74).

Among other parodies may be mentioned one entitled “An Old Souldier
of the Queen’s” (in _Merry Drollery, Compleat_, 31, and in _Wit and
Drollery_, 248, 1661); another, “The New Souldier” (_Wit and Drollery_,
282, 1682), beginning:—

  _With a new Beard but lately trimmed,_
  _With a new love-lock neatly kemm’d,_
  _With a new favour snatch’d or nimm’d,_
  _With a new doublet, French-like trimm’d;_
  _And a new gate, as if he swimm’d;_
        Like a new Souldier of the King’s,
        And the King’s new Souldier.

  _With a new feather in his Cap;_
  _With new white bootes, without a strap_; &c.

In the same edition of _Wit and Drollery_, p. 165, is yet another parody,
headed “_Old Souldiers_,” which runs thus (see _Westminster-Drollery_,
ii. 24, 1672,):—

  _Of Old Souldiers the song you would hear,_
  _And we old fiddlers have forgot who they were._

John Cleveland had a parody on the Queen’s Courtier, about 1648, entitled
The Puritan, beginning “With face and fashion to be known, For one
of sure election.” Another, called The Tub-Preacher, is doubtfully
attributed to Samuel Butler, and begins similarly, “With face and fashion
to be known: With eyes all white, and many a groan” (in his _Posthumous
Works_, p. 44, 3rd edit., 1730). The political parody, entitled “Saint
George and the Dragon, _anglicé Mercurius Poeticus_,” to the same tune
of “The Old Courtier,” is in the Kings Pamphlets, XVI., and has been
reprinted by T. Wright for the Percy Soc., iii. 205. It bears Thomason’s
date, 28 Feb., 1659-[60], and is on the overthrow of the Rump, by General
Monk. It begins thus:—

  _News! news! here’s the occurrences and a new Mercurius,_
  _A dialogue between Haselrigg the baffled and Arthur the furious;_
  _With Ireton’s readings upon legitimate and spurious,_
  _Proving that a Saint may be the Son of a Wh——, for the satisfaction
      of the curious._
            _From a Rump insatiate as the Sea,_
            Libera nos, Domine, _&c._

Old songs have rarely, if ever, been modernized so successfully as “The
Queen’s Old Courtier,” of which “The Fine Old English Gentleman” is no
unworthy representative. Popular though it was, thirty or forty years
ago, it is not easily met with now; thus we may be excused for adding it


  _I’ll sing you a good old song, made by a good old pate,_
  _Of a fine old English gentleman, who had an old estate,_
  _And who kept up his old mansion, at a bountiful old rate;_
  _With a good old porter to relieve the old poor at his gate._
  _Like a fine old English gentleman, all of the olden time._

  _His hall so old was hung around with pikes, and guns, and bows,_
  _And swords, and good old bucklers, that had stood against old foes;_
  _’Twas there “his worship” held his state in doublet and trunk hose,_
  _And quaff’d his cup of good old Sack, to warm, his good old nose:_
                _Like a fine old English gentleman, &c._

  _When Winter’s cold brought frost and snow, he open’d house to all;_
  _And though threescore and ten his years, he featly led the ball;_
  _Nor was the houseless wanderer e’er driven from his hall,_
  _For, while he feasted all the great, he ne’er forgot the small:_
                _Like a fine old English gentleman, &c._

  _But time, though sweet, is strong in flight, and years roll swiftly by;_
  _And autum’s falling leaves proclaimed, the old man—he must die!_
  _He laid him down right tranquilly, gave up life’s latest sigh;_
  _While a heavy stillness reign’d around, and tears dimm’d every eye._
                _For this good old English gentleman, &c._

  _Now surely this is better far than all the new parade_
  _Of theatres and fancy balls, “At Home,” and masquerade;_
  _And much more economical, when all the bills are paid:_
  _Then leave your new vagaries off, and take up the old trade_
                _Of a fine old English gentleman, &c._

A series of eight Essays, each illustrated with a design by R. W. Buss,
was devoted to “The Old and Young Courtier” in the _Penny Magazine_ of
the Society for Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, in 1842.

Charles Matthews used to sing (was it in “Patter _versus_ Clatter”?) an
amusing version of “The Fine Young English Gentleman,” of whom it was
reported that,

    _He kept up his vagaries at a most astounding rate,_
  _And likewise his old Landlady,—by staying out so late,_
      _Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time, &c._

T. R. Planché wrote a parody to the same tune, in his “Golden Fleece,” on
the “Fine Young Grecian Gentleman,” Iason, as described by his deserted
wife Medea: it begins, “I’ll tell you a sad tale of the life I’ve been
led of late.” In Dinny Blake’s “_Sprig of Shillelah_,” p. 3, is found
“The Rale Ould Irish Gintleman,” (5 verses) beginning, “I’ll sing you a
dacent song, that was made by a Paddy’s pate,” and ending thus:—

  _Each Irish boy then took a pride to prove himself a man,_
  _To serve a friend, and beat a foe it always was the plan_
      _Of a rale ould Irish Gintleman, the boy of the olden time._

(Or, as Wm. Hy. Murray, of Edinburgh, used to say, in his unequalled “Old
Country Squire,” “A smile for a friend, a frown for a foe, and a full
front for every one!”)

At the beginning of the Crimean War appeared another parody, ridiculing
the Emperor Nicholas, as “The Fine Old Russian Gentleman” (it is in
Berger’s _Red, White, and Blue_, 467); and clever Robert B. Brough,
in one of his more bitter moods against “The Governing Classes,”
misrepresented the “Fine Old English Gentleman” (_Ibid._, p. 733), as
splenetically as Charles Dickens did in _Barnaby Rudge_, chapter 47.

Page 20 (original). Pan _leave piping, &c._

Given already, in our Appendix to the _Westminster Drollery_, p. liv.,
with note of tune and locality. See Additional Note in Part 3 of present

Page 129 (orig. 26). _Why should we boast of ~Arthur~, &c._

There are so many differences in the version printed in the _Antidote
agt. Melancholy_ from that already given in _Merry Drollery, Compleat_,
p. 309, (cp. Note, p. 399), that we give the former uncurtailed.

Along with the music in _Pills to p. Mel._, iii. 116, 1719, are the
extra verses (also in _Wit and Mirth_, 1684, p. 29?) agreeing with the
_Antidote_; as does the version in _Old Bds._, i. 24, 1723.

Another old ballad, in the last-named collection, p. 153, is upon “King
Edward and Jane Shore; in Imitation, and to the Tune of, St. _George_ and
the _Dragon_.” It begins (in better version):—

  _Why should we boast of ~Lais~ and her knights,_
  _Knowing such Champions entrapt by Whorish Lights?_
  _Or why should we speak of ~Thais~ curled Locks,_
  _Or ~Rhodope~, &c._

Roxb. Coll., iii. 258, printed in 1671. Also in _Pills_, with music, iv.
272. The authorship of it is ascribed to SAMUEL BUTLER, in the volume
assuming to be his “Posthumous Works” (p. iii., 3rd edition, 1730); but
this ascription is of no weight in general.

In Edm. Gayton’s _Festivous Notes upon Don Quixot_, 1654, p. 231, we
read:—“’Twas very proper for these Saints to alight at the sign of St.
_George_, who slew the Dragon which was to prey upon the Virgin: The
truth of which story hath been abus’d by his own country-men, who almost
deny all the particulars of it, as I have read in a scurrilous Epigram,
very much impairing the credit and Legend of St. _George_; As followeth,

  _They say there is no ~Dragon~,_
    _Nor no Saint ~George~ ’tis said._
  _Saint ~George~ and ~Dragon~ lost,_
    _Pray Heaven there be a Maid!_

But it was smartly return’d to, in this manner,

  _Saint ~George~ indeed is dead,_
    _And the fell ~Dragon~ slaine;_
  _The ~Maid~ liv’d so and dyed,—_
    _She’ll ne’r do so againe._”

Somewhat different is the earlier version, in _Wit’s Recreations_,
1640-45. (Reprint, p. 194, which see, “To save a maid,” &c.) The Answer
to it is probably Gayton’s own.

Page 133 (orig. 29). _Come hither, thou merriest, &c._

Issued as a popular broadsheet, printed at London for Thomas Lambert,
probably during the lifetime of Charles I., we find this lively ditty of
“Blew Cap for Me!” in the Roxburghe Coll., i. 20, and in the Bd. Soc.
Reprint, vol. i. pp. 74-9. Mr. Chappell mentions that the tune thus named
“is included in the various editions of _The Dancing Master_ from 1650
to 1690; and says, the reference to ‘when our good king was in Falkland
town,’ [in the _Antidote_ it reads “our good _knight_,” line 13] may
supply an approximate date to the composition.” We believe that it must
certainly have been before the Scots sold their king for the base bribe
of money from the Parliamentarians, in 1648, when “Blew caps” became
hateful to all true Cavaliers. The visit to Falkland was in 1633, so the
date is narrowed in compass. From the Black-letter ballad we gain a few
corrections: _drowne_, for dare, in 4th line; long _lock’d_, 26th line;
for _further_ exercises, 28th; _Mistris_ (so we should read _Maitresse_,
not _a metrel_), 29th; _Pe gar_ me do love you (not “Dear”), 30th; _she_
replide. The First Part ends with the Irishman. The Second Part begins
with two verses not in the _Antidote_:—

  _A Dainty spruce Spanyard, with haire black as jett,_
    _long cloak with round cape, a long Rapier and Ponyard;_
  _Hee told her if that she could Scotland forget,_
    _hee’d shew her the Vines as they grow in the Vineyard._
              _“If thou wilt abandon_
                _this Country so cold,_
              _I’ll show thee faire Spaine,_
                _and much Indian gold.”_
              _But stil she replide, “Sir,_
                _I pray let me be;_
              Gif ever I have a man,
                Blew-cap for me.”

  _A haughty high German of Hamborough towne,_
    _a proper tall gallant, with mighty mustachoes;_
  _He weepes if the Lasse vpon him doe but frowne,_
    _yet he’s a great Fencer that comes to ore-match vs._
              _But yet all his fine fencing_
                _Could not get the Lasse;_
              _She deny’d him so oft,_
                _that he wearyed was;_
              _For still she replide, “Sir,_
                _I pray let me be;_
              Gif ever I have a man,
                Blew-cap for me.”

In the Netherland Mariner’s Speech we find for the fifth line of verse,
“_Isk_ will make thee,” _said_ he, “sole Lady,” &c. Another verse follows
it, before the conclusion:—

  _These sundry Sutors, of seuerall Lands,_ [4]
    _did daily solicite this Lasse for her fauour;_
  _And euery one of them alike vnderstands_
    _that to win the prize they in vaine did endeauour:_
              _For she had resolued_
                _(as I before said)_
              _To haue bonny Blew-cap,_
                _or else bee a maid._
              _Vnto all her suppliants_
                _still replyde she,_
              “Gif ever I have a man,
                Blew-cap for me.”

  _At last came a Scottish-man (with a blew-cap),_
    _and he was the party for whom she had tarry’d;_
  _To get this blithe bonny Lasse ’twas his gude hap,—_
    _they gang’d to the Kirk, & were presently marry’d._
              _I ken not weele whether_
                _it were Lord or Leard;_ [Laird]
              _They caude him some sike_
                _a like name as I heard;_
              _To chuse him from au_
                _She did gladly agree,—_
              _And still she cride_, “Blew-cap,
                th’art welcome to mee.”

The song is also reprinted for the Percy Society, (Fairholt’s _Costume_),
xxvii. 130, as well as in Evans’ _O. Bds._, iii. 245. Compare John
Cleavland’s “Square Cap,”—“Come hither, _Apollo’s_ bouncing girl.”

Page 135 (orig. 30). _The Wit hath long beholden been._

In Harleian MS. No. 6931, where it is signed as by DR. W. STRODE.

The tune of this is “The Shaking of the Sheets,” according to a broadside
printed for John Trundle (1605-24, before 1628, as by that date we
believe his widow’s name would have been substituted). We find it
reprinted by J. P. Collier in his _Book of Roxburghe Ballads_, p. 172,
1847, as “The Song of the Caps.” In an introductory note, we gather that
“This spirited and humorous song seems to have been founded, in some of
its points, upon the ‘Pleasant Dialogue or Disputation between the Cap
and the Head,’ which prose satire went through two editions, in 1564
and 1565: (see the Bridgewater Catalogue, p. 46.) It is, however, more
modern, and certainly cannot be placed earlier than the end of the reign
of Elizabeth. It may be suspected that it underwent some changes, to
adapt it to the times, when it was afterwards reprinted; and we finally
meet with it, but in a rather corrupted state, in a work published in
1656, called ‘Sportive Wit: the Muses Merriment, a new Spring of Lusty
Drollery,’ &c.” [p. 23.] It appears, with the music, in _Pills_, iv. 157;
in Percy Society’s “Costume,” 1849, 115, with woodcuts of several of the
caps mentioned.

In _Sportive Wit_, 1656, p. 23, is a second verse (coming before “The
Monmouth Cap,” &c.):—

  2.—_The Cap doth stand, each man can show,_
  _Above a Crown, but Kings below:_
  _The Cap is nearer heav’n than we;_
  _A greater sign of Majestie:_
  _When off the Cap we chance to take,_
  _Both head and feet obeysance make;_
          For any Cap, &c.

In our 3rd verse, it reads:—ever _brought_, The _quilted_, Furr’d;
_crewel_; 4th verse, line 6, of (_some say_) a horn. 5th verse, crooked
_cause aright; Which, being round and endless, knows_ || _To make as
endless any cause_ [A better version]. 6th, _findes_ a mouth; 7th, The
_Motley Man_ a Cap; [for lines 3, 4, compare Shakespeare, as to it taking
a wise man to play the fool,] like _the Gyant’s_ Crown. 8th, Sick-_mans_;
When _hats in Church_ drop off apace, _This_ Cap _ne’er leaves the_ head
_uncas’d_, Though he be _ill_; [two next verses are expanded into three,
in _Sp. Wit_.] 11th, none but _Graduats_ [N.B.]; _none_ covered are; _But
those that_ to; _go_ bare. _This_ Cap, _of all the Caps that be_, Is
_now_; _high_ degree.

Page 139 (orig. 37). _Once I a curious eye did fix._

This is in THOMAS WEAVER’S _Songs and Poems of Love and Drollery_, p.
16, 1654. Elsewhere attributed to JOHN CLEVELAND (who died in 1658),
and printed among his Poems “_J. Cleavland Revived_” (p. 106, 3rd edit.
1662), as “The Schismatick,” with a trashy fifth verse (not found

            _I heard of one did touch,_
            _He did tell as much,_
            _Of one that would not crouch_
                _At ~Communion~;_
            _Who thrusting up his hand_
                _Never made a stand_
            _Till he came where her f—— had union;_
            _She without all terrour,_
            _Thought it no errour,_
  _But did laugh till the tears down did trickle,_
  _Ha, ha, ha, ~Rotundus~, ~Rotundus~, ’tis you that my spleen
      doth tickle._

It is likewise in the _Rump_ collection, i. 223, 1662; _Loyal Sgs._, i.
131, 1731.

Page 139 (orig. 47). _I’s not come here to tauk of ~Prut~._

By BEN JONSON. This is the song of the Welshmen, Evan, Howell, and
Rheese, alternately, in Praise of Wales, sung in an Anti-Masque
“For the Honour of Wales,” performed before King James I. on Shrove
Tuesday, 1618-19. The final verse is omitted from the _Antidote against
Melancholy_. It is this (sung by Rheese):—

  _Au, but what say yow should it shance too,_
  _That we should leap it in a dance too,_
  _And make it you as great a pleasure,_
  _If but your eyes be now at leisure;_
  _As in your ears s’all leave a laughter,_
  _To last upon you six days after?_
  _Ha! well-a-go to, let us try to do,_
  _As your old ~Britton~, things to be writ on._

  CHORUS.—_Come, put on other looks now,_
          _And lay away your hooks now;_
          _And though yet yow ha’ no pump, sirs,_
          _Let ’em hear that yow can jump, sirs,_
            _Still, still, we’ll toudge your ears,_
            _With the praise of her thirteen s’eeres._

(See Col. F. Cunningham’s “Mermaid” Ben Jonson, iii. 130-2, for Gifford’s
Notes.) With a quaint old woodcut of a strutting Welshman, in cap and
feather, the song reappears in “_Recreations for Ingenious Head-pieces_,”
1645 (_Wits Recreations_, Reprint, p. 387).

Page 143. _Old Poets Hipocrin admire._

This is attributed to THOMAS RANDALL, or RANDOLPH (died 1634-5), in _Wit
and Mirth_, 1684. p. 101: But to N. N., along with music by Hy. Lawes,
in his _Ayres_, Book ii. p. 29, 1655. It is also in _Parnassus Biceps_,
1656, p. 158, “_All_ Poets,” &c., and in _Sportive Wit_, p. 60.

Page 144. _Hang the Presbyter’s Gill._

With music in _Pills_, vi. 182; title, “The Presbyter’s Gill:” where we
find three other verses, as 4th, 5th, and 7th:—


  _The stout-brested ~Lombard~, His brains ne’er incumbred,_
    _With drinking of Gallons three;_
  _~Trycongius~ was named, And by ~Cæsar~ famed,_
    _Who dubb’d him Knight Cap-a-pee._


  _If then Honour be in’t, Why a Pox should we stint_
    _Ourselves of the fulness it bears?_
  _H’ has less Wit than an Ape, In the blood of a Grape,_
    _Will not plunge himself o’er Head and Ears._


  _See the bold Foe appears, May he fall that him Fears,_
    _Keep you but close order, and then_
  _We will give him the Rout, Be he never so stout[,]_
    _And prepare for his Rallying agen._

  8 (Final).

  _Let’s drain the whole Cellar, &c._

The accumulative progression, humourously exaggerated, is to be seen
employed in other Drinking Songs; notably in “Here’s a Health to the
Barley-Mow, my brave boys!” (still heard at rural festivals in East
Yorkshire, and printed in J. H. Dixon’s _Bds. & Sgs. of the Peasantry_,
Bell’s annotated edit., p. 159) and “Bacchus Overcome,” beginning “My
Friend and I, we drank,” &c. (in _Coll. Old Bds._, iii. 145, 1725.)

Page 145. _’Tis Wine that inspires._

With music by Henry Lawes, in his Select Ayres, i. 32, 1653, entitled
“The Excellency of Wine:” the author was “LORD BROUGHALL” [query,

(Page, in original, 55.) _Let the bells ring._

See Introduction to our _Westminster-Drollery_ Reprint, pp. xxxvii-viii.
Although not printed in the first edition of his “Spanish Curate,” it is
so entirely in the spirit of JOHN FLETCHER that we need not hesitate to
assign it to him: and he died in 1625.

Page 146. _Bring out the [c]old Chyne._

With music, by Dr. John Wilson, in John Playford’s _Select Ayres_, 1659,
p. 86, entitled Glee to the Cook. A poem attributed to Thomas Flatman,
1655, begins, “A Chine of Beef, God save us all!”

Page 147. _In Love? away! you do me wrong._

Given, with music by Henry Lawes, in his _Select Ayres_, Book iii. p. 5,
1669. The author of the words was Dr. HENRY HUGHES. We do not find the
burden, “Come, fill’s a Cup,” along with the music.

(Page 65, orig.) _He that a Tinker, a Tinker &c._

See _Choyce Drollery_, 52, and note on p. 289.

Page 149, line 8th, _Now that the Spring, &c._

This was written by WILLM. BROWNE, author of “Britannia’s Pastorals,” and
therefore dates before 1645. See Additional Note, late in Part IV., on p.
296 of _M. D. C._

Page 149. _You Merry Poets, old boys._

Given, with music by John Hilton, in his _Catch that Catch Can_, 1652, p.
7. Also in Walsh’s _Catch-Club_, ii. 13, No. 24.

Page 150. _Come, come away, to the Tavern, I say._

By Sir JOHN SUCKLING, in his unfinished tragedy “The Sad One,” Act iv.
sc. 4, where it is sung by Signior Multecarni the Poet, and two of the
actors; but without the final couplet, which recalls to memory Francis’s
rejoinder in Henry IV., pt. i. Suckling was accustomed to introduce
Shakesperian phrases into his plays, and we believe these two lines are
genuine. We find the Catch, with music by John Hilton in that composer’s
_Catch that Catch Can_, 1652, p. 15. (Also in Playford’s _Musical
Companion_, 1673, p. 24.)

Captain William Hicks has a dialogue of Two Parliamentary Troopers,
beginning with the same first line, in _Oxford Drollery_, i. 21, 1671.
Written before 1659, thus:

  _Come, come away, to the Tavern, I say,_
    _Whilst we have time and leisure for to think;_
  _I find our State lyes tottering of late,_
    _And that e’re long we sha’n’t have time to drink._
        Then here’s a health to thee, to thee and me,
        To me and thee, to thee and me, _&c._

Page 151. _There was an Old Man at ~Walton~ Cross._

This should read “_Waltham_ Cross.” By RICHARD BROME, in his comedy
of “The Jovial Crew,” Act ii., 1641, wherein it is sung by Hearty, as
“t’other old song for that” [the uselessness of sighing for a lass]; to
the tune of “Taunton Dean,” (see Dodsley’s _Old Plays_, 1st edit., 1744,
vi. 333). With music by John Hilton, it is given in J. H.’s _Catch that
Catch Can_, 1652, p. 31. It is also in Walsh’s _Catch Club_ (about 1705)
ii. 17, No. 43.

Page 151. _Come, let us cast dice, who shall drink._

In J. Hilton’s _Catch that Catch Can_, 1652, p. 55, with music by William
Lawes; and in John Playford’s _Musical Companion_, 1673, p. 24.

Page 151. _Never let a man take heavily, &c._

With music by William Lawes, in Hilton’s _Catch that Catch Can_, 1652, p.

Page 152. _Let’s cast away care, and merrily sing._

With music by William Lawes, in Hilton’s _Catch that Catch Can_, 1652,
p. 37. Wm. Chappell gives the words of four lines, omitting fifth and
sixth, to accompany the music of Ben Jonson’s “Cock Lorrell,” in _Pop.
Mus. of O. T._, 161 (where date of the _Antidote_ is accidentally
misprinted 1651, for 1661).

Page 152. _Hang sorrow, and cast away care._

With music by William Lawes, in Hilton’s _Catch that Catch Can_, 1652, p.
39. The words alone in _Windsor Drollery_, 140, 1672. Richard Climsall,
or Climsell, has a long ballad, entitled “Joy and Sorrow Mixt Together,”
which begins,

  _Hang Sorrow! let’s cast away care,_
    _for now I do mean to be merry;_
  _Wee’l drink some good Ale and strong Beere,_
    _With Sugar, and Clarret, and Sherry._
  _Now Ile have a wife of mine own:_
    _I shall have no need for to borrow;_
  _I would have it for to be known_
    _that I shall be married to morrow._
  Here’s a health to my Bride that shall be!
    come, pledge it, you coon merry blades;
  The day I much long for to see,
    we will be as merry as the Maides.

Poor fellow! he soon changes his tune, after marriage, although singing
to the music of “Such a Rogue would be hang’d,”—better known as “Old
Sir Simon the King.” Printed by John Wright the younger (1641-83), it
survives in the Roxburghe Collection, i. 172, and is reprinted for the
Bd. Soc., i. 515. As may be seen, it is totally different from the
Catch in Hilton’s volume and the _Antidote_; which is also in _Oxford
Drollery_, Pt. 3, p. 136, there entitled “A Cup of Sack:—“_Hang Sorrow,
cast_,” &c.

It there has two more verses:—


  _Come Ladd, here’s a health to thy Love,_ [p. 136.]
    _Do thou drink another to mine,_
  _I’le never be strange, for if thou wilt change_
    _I’le barter my Lady for thine:_
  _She is as free, and willing to be_
    _To any thing I command,_
  _I vow like a friend, I never intend_
    _To put a bad thing in thy hand:_
  _Then be as frollick and free_ [p. 137.]
    _With her as thou woul’st with thine own,_
  _But let her not lack good Claret and Sack,_
    _To make her come off and come on._


  _Come drink, we cannot want Chink,_
    _Observe how my pockets do gingle,_
  _And he that takes his Liquor all off_
    _I here do adopt him mine ningle:_
  _Then range a health to our King,_
    _I mean the King of ~October~,_
  _For ~Bacchus~ is he that will not agree_
    _A man should go to bed sober:_
  _’Tis wine, both neat and fine,_
    _That is the faces adorning,_
  _No Doctor can cure, with his Physick more sure,_
    _Than a Cup of small Beer in the morning._

This shows how a great man’s gifts are undervalued. Christopher Sly was
truly wise (yet accounted a Sot and even a Rogue, though “the Slys are
no rogues: look in the chronicles! We came in with Richard Conqueror!”)
when, with all the wealth and luxury of the Duke at command, he demanded
nothing so much as “a pot o’ the smallest ale.” He had good need of it.

Page 152. _My Lady and her Maid, upon a merry pin._

This meets us earlier, in Hilton’s _Catch that Catch Can_, 1651, p. 64,
with music by William Ellis. The missing first verse reappears (if,
indeed, not a later addition) in _Oxford Drollery_, 1674, Part iii. p.
163, as “made at Oxford many years since”:—

  _My Lady and her Maid_
    _Were late at Course-a-Park:_
  _The wind blew out the candle, and_
    _She went to bed in the dark,_

  _My Lady, &c._ [as in _Antidote ag. Mel._]

It was popular before December, 1659; allusions to it are in the _Rump_,
1662, i. 369; ii. 62, 97.

Page 153. _An old house end._

Also in _Windsor Drollery_, 1672, p. 30.

Same p. 153. _Wilt thou lend me thy Mare._

With music by Edmund Nelham, in John Hilton’s _Catch that Catch can_,
1652, p. 78. The Answer, here beginning “Your Mare is lame,” &c., we
have not met elsewhere. The Catch itself has always been a favourite.
In a world wherein, amid much neighbourly kindness, there is more than
a little of imposition, the sly cynicism of the verse could not fail
to please. Folks do not object to doing a good turn, but dislike being
deemed silly enough to have been taken at a disadvantage. So we laugh
at the Catch, say something wise, and straightway let ourselves do
good-natured things again with a clear conscience.

Page 154. _Good ~Symon~, how comes it, &c._

With music by William Howes, in Hilton’s _Catch that Catch can_, 1652,
p. 84. Also in Walsh’s _Catch-Club_, ii. 77. We are told that the
_Symon_ here addressed, regarding his Bardolphian nose, was worthy Symon
Wadloe,—“Old _Sym_, the King of Skinkers,” or Drawers. Possibly some
jocular allusion to the same reveller animates the choice ditty (for
which see the _Percy Folio MS._, iv. 124, and _Pills_, iii. 143),

  _Old Sir ~Simon~ the King!_
    _With his ale-dropt hose,_
    _And his malmesy nose,_
  _Sing hey ding, ding a ding ding._

We scarcely believe the ascription to be correct, and that “Old Symon
the King” originally referred to Simon Wadloe, who kept the “Devil and
St. Dunstan” Tavern, whereat Ben Jonson and his comrades held their
meetings as The Apollo Club; for which the _Leges Conviviales_ were
written. Seeing that Wadloe died in 1626, or ’27, and there being a clear
trace of “Old Simon the King” in 1575, in Laneham’s _Kenilworth Letter_
(Reprinted for Ballad Society, 1871, p. cxxxi.), the song appears of too
early a date to suit the theory. _Tant pis pour les faits._ But consult
Chappell’s _Pop. Mus._, 263-5, 776-7.

Same p. 154. _Wilt thou be fatt? &c._

In 1865 (see his _Bibliog. Account_, i. 25), J. P. Collier drew attention
to the mention of Falstaff’s name in this Catch; also to the other
_Shakesperiana_, viz., the complete song of “Jog on, jog on the footpath
way,” (p. 156), and the burden of “Three merry boys,” to “The Wise-men
were but Seven” (_M. D. C._, p. 232), which is connected with Sir Toby
Belch’s joviality in _Twelfth Night_, Act ii. 3.

Page 155. _Of all the birds that ever I see._

With the music, in Chappell’s _Pop. Mus. O. T._, p. 75. This favourite of
our own day dates back so early, at least, as 1609, when it appeared in
(Thomas Ravenscroft’s?) _Deuteromelia; or, the Second Part of Musick’s
Melodie, &c._, p. 7. We therein find (what has dropped out, to the damage
of our _Antidote_ version), as the final couplet:—

  _Sinamont and ginger, nutmegs and cloves,_
  _And that gave me my jolly red nose._

Of course, it was the spice deserved blame, not the liquor (as Sam Weller
observed, on a similar occasion, “Somehow it always _is_ the salmon”).
Those who remember (at the Johnson in Fleet Street, or among the
Harmonist Society of Edinburgh) the suggestive lingering over the first
syllable of the word “gin-ger,” when “this song is well sung,” cannot
willingly relinquish the half-line. It is a genuine relic, for it also
occurs in Beaumont and Fletcher’s “Knight of the Burning Pestle,” about
1613, Act i. sc. 3; where chirping Old Merrythought, “who sings with
never a penny in his purse,” gives it thus, while “singing and hoiting”
[i.e., skipping]:—

  _Nose, nose, jolly red nose,_
  _And who gave thee this jolly red nose?_
  Cinnamon and ginger, nutmegs and cloves,
  _And they gave me this jolly red nose_.

And we know, by _A Booke of Merrie Riddles_, 1630, and 1631, that it was
much sung:

          —_then Ale-Knights should_
  _To sing this song not be so bold,_
  Nutmegs, Ginger, Cinamon and Cloves,
  They gave us this jolly red nose.

Same p. 155. _This Ale, my bonny lads, &c._

Like Nos. 4, 21, 24, 31, &c., not yet found elsewhere.

Page 156. _What! are we met? Come. &c._

With music by Thomas Holmes, in Hilton’s _Catch that Catch can_, 1652, p.

Same p. 156. _Jog on, jog on the foot path-way._

The four earliest lines of this ditty are sung by Autolycus the Pedlar,
and “picker up of unconsidered trifles,” in Shakespeare’s _Winter’s Tale_
(about 1610), Act iv. sc. 2. Whether the latter portion of the song was
also by him (nay, more, whether he actually wrote, or merely quoted even
the four opening lines), cannot be determined. We prefer to believe
that from his hand alone came the fragment, at least—this lively snatch
of melody, with good philosophy, such as the Ascetics reject, to their
own damage. No wrong is done in accepting the remainder of the song as
genuine. The final verse is orthodox, according to the Autolycusian rule
of faith. It is in _Windsor Drollery_, p. 30; and our Introduction to
_Westminster-Drollery_, p. xxxv.

Page 157. _The parcht earth drinks_, &c.

Compare, with this lame paraphrase of Anacreon’s racy Ode, the more
poetic version by Abraham Cowley, printed in _Merry Drollery, Compleat_,
p. 22 (not in 1661 ed. _Merry D._) All of Cowley’s Anacreontiques are
graceful and melodious. He and Thomas Stanley fully entered into the
spirit of them, _arcades ambo_.

Same p. 157. _A Man of Wales_, &c.

We meet this, six years earlier, in _Wits Interpreter_, 1655 edit., p.
285; 1671, p. 290. Our text is the superior.

Page 158. _Drink, drink, all you that think._

Also found in _Wit and Mirth_, 1684, p. 113.

Page 159. _Welcome, welcome, again to thy wits._

By JAMES SHIRLEY, (1590-1666) in his comedy, “The Example,” 1637, Act v.
sc. 3, where it is the Song of Sir Solitary Plot and Lady Plot. Repeated
in the _Academy of Complements_, 1670, p. 209. Until after that date, for
nearly a century, almost all the best songs had been written for stage
plays. It forms an appropriate finale, from the last Dramatist of the old
school, to the Restoration merriment, the _Antidote against Melancholy_,
of 1661.

In one of the later “Sessions of the Poets” (_vide postea_ Part 4, §
2)—probably, of 1664-5,—Shirley is referred to, ungenerously. He was then
aged nearly seventy:—

  _Old ~Shirley~ stood up, and made an Excuse,_
    _Because many Men before him had got;_
  _He vow’d he had switch’d and spur-gall’d his Muse,_
    _But still the dull Jade kept to her old trot._

He is also mentioned, with more reverence implied, by George Daniel of
Beswick; and we may well conclude this second part of our Appendix with
the final verses from the Beswick MS. (1636-53); insomuch as many Poets
are therein mentioned, to whom we return in Section Fourth:—

  _The noble ~Overburies~ Quill has left_ [verse 20]
  _A better Wife then he could ever find:_
  _I will not search too deep, lest I should lift_
  _Dust from the dead: Strange power, of womankind,_
      _To raise and ruine; for all he will claime,_
      _As from that sex; his Birth, his Death, his Fame._

  _But I spin out too long: let me draw up_
  _My thred, to honour names, of my owne time_
  _Without their Eulogies, for it may stop_
  _With Circumstantiall Termes, a wearie Rhime:_
      _Suffice it if I name ’em; that for me_
      _Shall stand, not to refuse their Eulogie._

  _The noble ~Falkland~, ~Digbie~, ~Carew~, ~Maine~,_
  _~Beaumond~, ~Sands~, ~Randolph~, ~Allen~, ~Rutter~, ~May~,_[13]
  _The devine ~Herbert~, and the ~Fletchers~ twaine_,
  _~Habinton~, ~Shirley~, ~Stapilton~; I stay_ [N.B.]
      _Too much on names; yet may I not forget_
      _~Davenant~, and ~Suckling~, eminent in witt._

  _~Waller~, not wants, the glory of his verse;_
  _And meets, a noble praise in every line;_
  _What should I adde in honour? to reherse,_
  _Admired ~Cleveland~? by a verse of mine?_
      _Or give ye glorious Muse of ~Denham~ praise?_
      _Soe withering Brambles stand, to liveing Bayes._

  _These may suffice; not only to advance_
  _Our ~English~ honour, but for ever crowne_
  _Poesie, ’bove the reach of Ignorance;_
  _Our dull fooles unmov’d, admire their owne_
      _Stupiditie; and all beyond their sphere_
      _As Madnes, and but tingling in the Eare._

  [Final Verse.]

  _Great Flame! whose raies at once have power to peirce_
  _The frosted skull of Ignorance, and close_
  _The mouth of Envie; if I bring a verse_
  _Unapt to move; my admiration flowes_
      _With humble Love and Zeale in the intent_
      _To a cleare Rapture, from the Argument._

                             (G. D.’s “_A Vindication of Poesie_.”)

End of Notes to _Antidote_.



  “A living Drollery!” (Shakespeare’s _Tempest_, Act iii. sc. 3.)

Before concluding our present series, _The Drolleries of the
Restoration_, we have gladly given in this volume the fourteen pages of
Extra Songs contained in the 1674 edition of _Westminster-Drollery_, Part
1st. Sometimes reported as amounting to “nearly forty” (but, perhaps,
this statement referred to the Second Part inclusive), it is satisfactory
to have joined these six to their predecessors; especially insomuch that
our readers do not, like the original purchasers, have to pay such a
heavy price as losing an equal number of pages filled with far superior
songs. For, the 1671 Part First contained exactly 124 pages, and the
1674 edition has precisely the same number, neither more nor less. The
omissions are not immediately consecutive, (as are the additions, which
are gathered in one group in the final sheet, pp. 111-124.) They were
selected, with unwise discrimination, throughout the volume. Not fourteen
pages of objectionable and relinquishable _facetiæ_; but ten songs, from
among the choicest of the poems. Our own readers are in better case,
therefore: they gain the additions, without yielding any treasures of
verse in exchange.

We add a list of what are thus relinquished from the 1674 edition, noting
the pages of our _Westm. D._ on which they are to be found:—

  P.  5. Wm. Wycherley’s, _A Wife I do hate_             1671
  —  10. Dryden’s, _Phillis ~Unkind~: Wherever I am_       do.
  —  15. Unknown, _O you powerful gods_,                 ? do.
  —  28. T. Shadwell’s, _Thus all our life long_,        1669
  —  30. Dryden’s, Cellamina, _of my heart_,             1671
  —  31. Ditto, _Beneath a myrtle shade_,                  do.
  — 116. Ditto, Ditto (almost duplicate),                  do.
  —  47. Ditto, _Make ready, fair Lady_,                 1668
  —   —. Etherege’s, _To little or no purpose_,            do.
  —  91. T. Carew’s, _O my dearest, I shall_, &c.,  bef. 1638
  — 100. Ditto, or Cary’s, _Farewell, fair Saint_,  bef. 1652

Thus we see that most of these were quite new when the
_Westminster-Drollery_ first printed them (in four cases, at least,
before the plays had appeared as books): they were rejected three years
later for fresh novelties. But the removal of Carew’s tender poems was a
worse offence against taste.

Except the odd Quakers’ Madrigall of “Wickham Wakened” (on p. 120; our
p. 188), which is not improbably by Joe Haynes, we believe the whole
of the other five new songs of 1674 came from one work. We are unable
at once to state the name and author of the drama in which they occur.
The five are given (severely mutilated, in two instances) in _Wit at a
Venture; or, ~Clio’s~ Privy-Garden_, of the same date, 1674. Here, also,
they form a group, pp. 33-42; with a few others that probably belong to
the same play, viz., “Too weak are human eyes to pry;” “Oh that I ne’er
had known the power of Love;” “Must I be silent? no, and yet forbear;”
“Cease, wandering thought, and let her brain” (this is Shirley’s, in the
“Triumph of Beauty,” 1645); “How the vain world ambitiously aspires;”
“Heaven guard my fair _Dorinda_:” and, perhaps, “Rise, golden Fame, and
give thy name or birth.” Titles are added to most of these.

Page 179. _So wretched are the sick of Love_, is, on p. 37 of _Wit at a
Venture_, entitled Distempered Love. The third verse is omitted.

Page 181. _To Arms! To Arms! &c._, on p. 39, entitled The Souldier’s
Song; 13th line reads “Where _we_ must try.”

Page 182. _Beauty that it self can kill_, on p. 35; reading, in 20th
line, “When the fame and virtue falls || Careless courage,” &c.

Page 183. _The young, the fair, &c._, on p. 33, is entitled _The Murdered
Enemy_; reading _Clarissa_ for _Camilla_; and giving lines 17th and 19th,
“Her beauties” and “Fierce Lions,” &c. Line 23rd is “And not to check it
in the least.”

Page 184. _How frailty makes us to our wrong._

Called A Moral Song in _Wit at a Venture_, p. 41, which rightly reads
“grovel,” not “gravel,” in line 6; but omits third verse, and all the

Page 188. _The Quaker and his Brats._

We have not seen this elsewhere. Attributed to “the famous actor, JOSEPH
HAINES,” or “Joe Haynes,”

  _Who, while alive, in playing took great pains,_
  _Performing all his acts with curious art,_
  _Till Death appear’d, and smote him with his dart._

His portrait, as when riding on a Jack-ass, in 1697, is extant. He died
4th April, 1701, and was mourned by the Smithfield muses.


To the 1671-72 Editions of


Page 81. _Is she gone? let her go._

This is a parody or mock on a black-letter ballad in the Roxburghe
Collection, ii. 102, entitled “The Deluded Lasses Lamentation: or, the
False Youth’s Unkindness to his Beloved Mistress.” Its own tune. Printed
for P. Brooksby, J. Deacon, J. Blare, J. Black. In four-line verses,

    _Is she gone? let her go, I do not care,_
  _Though she has a dainty thing, I had my share:_
  _She has more land than I by one whole Acre,_
  _I have plowed in her field, who will may take her._

Part I., p. 105. _Hic jacet, ~John Shorthose~._

The music to this is in Jn. Playford’s _Musical Companion_, 1673, p. 34
(as also to “Here lyes a woman,” &c. See Appendix to _Westm. Droll_., p.

Part I., p. 106. _There is not half so warm, &c._

See _Choyce Drollery_, 1656, p. 61, _ante_; and p. 293, for note
correcting “daily” to “dully” in ninth line.

Part II., p. 74 (App. p. lv.) _As ~Moss~ caught his Mare._

Not having had space at command, when giving a short Addit. Note on p.
408 of _M. D. C._, we now add a nursery rhyme (we should gladly have
given another, which mentions catching the mare “Napping up a tree”).
Perhaps the following may be the song reported as being sung in South

  _~Moss~ was a little man, and a little mare did buy,_
  _For kicking and for sprawling none her could come nigh;_
  _She could trot, she could amble, and could canter here and there,_
  _But one night she strayed away—so ~Moss~ lost his Mare._

  _~Moss~ got up next morning to catch her fast asleep,_
  _And round about the frosty fields so nimbly he did creep._
  _Dead in a ditch he found her, and glad to find her there,_
  _So I’ll tell you by and bye, how ~Moss~ caught his mare._

  _Rise! stupid, rise! he thus to her did say,_
  _Arise you beast, you drowsy beast, get up without delay,_
  _For I must ride you to the town, so don’t lie sleeping there,_
  _He put the halter round her neck—so ~Moss~ caught his mare._

As that prematurely wise young sceptic Paul Dombey declared, when a
modern-antique Legend was proffered to him, “I don’t believe that story!”
It is frightfully devoid of _ærugo_, even of _æruca_. It may do for South
Devon, and for Aylesbury farmers over their “beer and bacca,” but not for
us. The true Mosse found his genuine mare veritably “napping” (not dead),
up a real tree.

In John Taylor’s “_A Swarme of Sectaries and Schismatiqves_,” 1641, his
motto is (concerning Sam Howe lecturing from a tub),

  _The Cobler preaches and his Audience are_
  _As wise as ~Mosse~ was, when he caught his Mare._

Part II., page 89. _Cheer up, my mates, &c._

(See Appendix to _Westm. Droll_., p. lxii.) The author of this
frollicsome ditty was no other than ABRAHAM COWLEY (1618-67), dear to all
who know his choice “Essays in Prose and Verse,” his unlaboured letters,
the best of his smaller poems, or the story of his stainless life and
gentleness. It is that noble thinker and poet, Walter Savage Landor, who
writes, and in his finest mood:—

                _Time has been_
  _When ~Cowley~ shone near ~Milton~, nay, above!_
  _An age roll’d on before a keener sight_
  _Could separate and see them far apart._

                                 (_Hellenics_, edit. 1859, p. 258.)

Yet while we yield unquestioningly the higher rank as Poet to John
Milton, we hold the generous nature of his rival, Cowley, in more loving
regard. He was not of the massive build in mind, or stern unflinching
resolution needed for such times as those wherein his lot was cast.
When the weakest goes to the wall, amid universal disturbance and
selfish warring for supremacy, his was not the strong arm to beat back
encroachment. Gentle, affectionate, and truthful, exceptionally pure and
single-minded, although living as Queen Henrietta’s secretary in her
French Court, where impurity of thought and lightness of conduct were
scarcely visited with censure, the uncongenial scenes and company around
him help to enhance the charm of his mild disposition. Heartless wits
might lampoon him, stealthy foes defame him, lest he should gain one
favour or reward that they were hankering after. To us he remains the
lover of the “Old Patrician trees,” the friend of Crashaw and of Evelyn,
the writer of the most delightful essays and familiar letters: alas! too

The “Song” in _Westminster-Drollery_, ii. 89, set by Pelham Humphrey, is
the opening verse of Cowley’s “ODE: Sitting and Drinking in the Chair
made out of the Reliques of Sir Francis Drake’s Ship.” [The chair was
presented to the University Library, Oxford.]

Corrections: _dull men_ are those _who_ tarry; and spy _too_. Three
verses follow. Of these we add the earliest, leaving uncopied the others,
of 21 and 18 lines. They are to be found on p. 9 of Cowley’s “Verses
written on Several Occasions,” folio ed., 1668. The idea of the shipwreck
“in the wide Sea of Drink” had been early welcomed by him, and treated
largely, Feb. 1638-9, in his _Naufragium Joculare_.


  _What do I mean: What thoughts do me misguide?_
  _As well upon a staff may Witches ride_
      _Their fancy’d Journies in the Ayr,_
  _As I sail round the Ocean in this Chair:_
      _’Tis true; but yet this Chair which here you see,_
  _For all its quiet now and gravitie,_
  _Has wandred, and has travail’d more_
  _Than ever Beast, or Fish, or Bird, or ever Tree before._
  _In every Ayr, and every Sea ’t has been,_
  _’T has compos’d all the Earth, and all the Heavens ’t has seen._
  _Let not the Pope’s it self with this compare,_
  _This is the only Universal Chair._

It must have been written before 1661, as it appears among the “_Choyce
Poems, being Songs, Sonnets, &c._”, printed for Henry Brome, (who ten
years afterwards published _Westm. Droll._) at the Gun in Ivie Lane, in
that year. It is in the additional opening sheet, p. 13; not found in the
1658 editions of _Choyce Poems_.

_Westminster-Drollery_ Appendix, p. liv. “_The Green Gown_,” Pan, _leave
piping, &c._

Under the title “The Fetching Home of May,” we meet an early ballad-form
copy in the Roxburghe Collection, i. 535, printed for J. Wright, junior,
dwelling at the upper end of the Old Bailey. It begins “Now _Pan_ leaves
piping,” and is in two parts, each containing five verses. Three of
these are not represented in the _Antidote_ of 1661. Wm. Chappell, the
safest of all guides in such matters, notes that “the publisher [of
the broadside] flourished in and after 1635. No clue remains to the
authorship.” (_Bd. Soc._ reprint, iii. 311, 1875.)

As in the case of the companion-ditty, “Come, Lasses and Lads” (_Westm.
Droll._, ii. 80), we may feel satisfied that this lively song was written
before the year 1642. No hint of the Puritanic suppression of Maypoles
can be discerned in either of them. Such sports were soon afterwards
prohibited, and if ballads celebrating their past delights had then
been newly written, the author must have yielded to the temptation to
gird at the hypocrites and despots who desolated each village green. We
cannot regard the _Roxburghe Ballad_ as being superior to the _Antidote_
version: But they mutually help one another in corrections. We note the
chief: first verse, So lively _it_ passes; _Good lack_, what paines; 2,
_Thus_ they so much; 3 (our 4), Came very _lazily_. It is after the five
verses that differences are greatest. Our 6th verse is absent, and our
7th appears as the 8th; with new 6th, 7th, 9th, and 10th, which we here
give, but print them to match our others:


(_The Second Part._)


  This Maying so pleased || Most of the fine lasses,
    That they much desired to fetch in May flowers,
  For to strew the windows and such like places,
    Besides they’l have May bows, fit for shady bowers.
  But most of all they goe || To find where Love doth growe,
  Each young man knowes ’tis so, || Else hee’s a clowne:
  For ’tis an old saying, || “There is great joying,
  When maids go a Maying,” || _They’ll have a greene gowne_.


  Maidens and young men goe, || As ’tis an order old,
    For to drink merrily and eat spiced cakes;
  The lads and the lasses their customs wil hold,
    For they wil goe walk i’ th’ fields, like loving mates:
  _Em_ calls for _Mary_, || And _Ruth_ calls for _Sarah_,
  _Iddy_ calls for _Har[r]y_ || To man them along:
  _Martin_ calls _Marcy_, || _Dick_ calls for _Debary_,
  Then they goe lovingly || _All in a throng_.

  8. (_Westm. Droll._, 7.)

  The bright _Apollo_ || Was all the while peeping
  To see if his _Daphne_ had bin in the throng,
  And, missing her, hastily downward was creeping,
    For [_Thetis_] imagined [he] they tarri’d too long.
  Then all the troope mourned || And homeward returned,
  For _Cynthia_ scorned || To smile or to frowne:
  Thus did they gather May || All the long summer’s day,
  And went at night away, || _With a green gowne_.


  Bright _Venus_ still glisters, Out-shining of _Luna_;
    _Saturne_ was present, as right did require;
  And he called _Jupiter_ with his Queen _Juno_,
    To see how Dame _Venus_ did burn in desire:
  Now _Jove_ sent _Mercury_ || To _Vulcan_ hastily,
  Because he should descry [decoy] Dame _Venus_ down:
  _Vulkan_ came running, On _Mars_ he stood frowning,
  Yet for all his cunning, || _Venus had a greene gowne_.


  Cupid shootes arrowes At _Venus_ her darlings,
    For they are nearest unto him by kind:
  _Diana_ he hits not, nor can he pierce worldlings,
    For they have strong armour his darts to defend:
  The one hath chastity, And _Cupid_ doth defie;
  The others cruelty || makes him a clowne:
  But leaving this I see, From _Cupid_ few are free,
  And ther’s much courtesie _In a greene gowne_.


We have a firm conviction that these verses (not including “The bright
Apollo”) were unauthorized additions by an inferior hand, of a mere
ballad-monger. We hold by the _Antidote_.

Part II., 100, Appendix, p. lxviii.

Here is the old ballad mentioned, from our own black-letter copy. Compare
it with _W. D._:—

    The Devonshire Damsels’ Frollick.

    Being an Account of nine or ten fair Maidens, who went one
    Evening lately, to wash themselves in a pleasant River, where
    they were discovered by several Young Men being their familiar
    Acquaintances, who took away their Gowns and Petticoats, with
    their Smocks and Wine and good Chear; leaving them a while in
    a most melancholly condition.

    To a pleasant New Play-house Tune [music is given]: Or, Where’s
    my Shepherd?

    This may be Printed. R[obt]. P[ocock, 1685-8].

      _~Tom~ and ~William~ with ~Ned~ and ~Ben~,_
          _In all they were about nine or ten;_
      _Near a trickling River endeavour to see_
          _a most delicate sight for men;_
      _Nine young maidens they knew it full well,_
      _~Sarah~, ~Susan~, with bonny ~Nell~,_
          _and all those others whose names are not here,_
          _intended to wash in a River clear._

      _~Simon~ gave out the report_
          _the rest resolving to see the sport[,]_
      _The Young freely repairing declaring_
          _that this is the humours of ~Venus~ Court[,]_
      _In a Bower those Gallants remaine_
          _seeing the Maidens trip o’re the plain[:]_
      _They thought no Body did know their intent_
          _as merrily over the Fields they went._

      _~Nell~ a Bottle of Wine did bring_
          _with many a delicate dainty thing[,]_
      _Their Fainting Spirits to nourish and cherish_
          _when they had been dabbling in the Spring[:]_
      _They supposing no Creature did know_
          _to the River they merrily goe,_
      _When they came thither and seeing none near[,]_
          _Then under the bushes they hid their chear._

      _Then they stripping of all their Cloaths_
          _their Gowns their Petticoats Shooes & Hose[,]_
      _Their fine white smickits then stripping & skipping[,]_
          _no Body seeing them they suppose[,]_
      _~Sarah~ enter’d the River so clear_
          _and bid them follow they need not fear[,]_
      _For why the Water is warm they replyed[,]_
          _then into the River they sweetly glide._

      _Finely bathing themselves they lay_
          _like pretty Fishes they sport and play[,]_
      _Then let’s be merry[,] said ~Nancy~, I fancy,_
          _it’s seldom that any one walks this way[.]_
      _Thus those Females were all in a Quill_
          _and following on their Pastime still[,]_
      _All naked in a most dainty trim_
          _those Maidens like beautifull Swans did swim._

      _Whilst they followed on their Game[,]_
          _out came sweet ~William~ and ~Tom~ by name._
      _They took all their Clothing and left nothing [t’ ’em:]_
          _Maids was they not Villains and much to blame[?]_
      _Likewise taking their Bottle of Wine[,]_
          _with all their delicate Dainties fine[:]_
      _Thus they were rifled of all their store,_
          _was ever poor Maidens so serv’d before._

      _From the River those Maidens fair_
          _Return’d with sorrow and deep despair[;]_
      _When they seeing, brooding[,] concluding_
          _that somebody certainly had been there[,]_
      _With all their Treasure away they run[,]_
          _Alas[!] said ~Nelle~[,] we are undone,_
      _Those Villains I wish they were in the Stocks,_
          _that took our Petticoats Gowns and Smocks._

      _Then Sweet ~Sarah~ with modest ~Prue~_
          _they all was in a most fearful Hue[,]_
      _Every Maiden replying and crying_
          _they did not know what in the world to do[.]_
      _But what laughing was there with the men_
          _in bringing their Gowns and Smocks again[,]_
      _The Maidens were modest & mighty mute[,]_
          _and gave them fine curtsies and thanks to boot._

  Printed for P. Brooksby at the Golden Ball in Pye Corner [1672-95.]

Part II., pp. 120, 123 (App. p. lxxii.)

_O Love if e’er, &c._ There is a parody or “Mock” to this, beginning “O
_Mars_, if e’er thoult ease a blade,” and entitled “The Martial Lad,” in
Wm. Hicks’ _London Drollery_, 1673, p. 116.

End of Notes to _Westminster-Drollery_.



(_Not repeated in the 1670 and 1691 Editions._)

  _Falstaff._—“If Sack and Sugar be a fault, Heaven help the wicked.”

                               (_Henry_ IV., Pt. 1, Act ii. Sc. 4.)

Collections of Songs, depending chiefly on the popularity of such as are
already in vogue, or of others that promise fairly to please the reader,
are necessarily of all books the most liable to receive alterations
when re-issued. Thus we ourselves possess half-a-dozen editions of _the
Roundelay_, and also of the _Bullfinch_, both undated eighteenth-century
songsters; each copy containing a dozen or more of Songs not to be found
in the others. Our _Merry Drollery_ is a case in point. As already
mentioned, there is absolutely no difference between the edition of 1670
and 1691 of _Merry Drollery, Compleat_, except the title-page. It was a
well-understood trade stratagem, to re-issue the unsold sheets, those
of 1670, with a freshly-dated title-page, as in 1691; so to catch the
seekers after novelty by their most tempting lure. Even the two pages of
“List of New Books” (reprinted conscientiously by ourselves in _M. D.,
C._, pp. 358, 359) are identical in both!

We take credit beforehand for the readers’ satisfaction at our providing
such a _Table of First Lines_, as we hereafter give, that may enable
him easily and convincedly to understand the alterations made from the
1661 edition of _Merry Drollery_, both parts, when it was re-issued
in a single volume, paged consecutively, in 1670 and 1691. It is more
difficult to understand _why_ the changes were made, than thus to see
what they were. 1. It could not have been from modesty: although some
objectionable pieces were omitted, others, quite as open to censure, were
newly admitted instead. 2. Scarcely could it have been that as political
satires they were out of date (except in the case of the Triumph over The
Gang—England’s Woe—and Admiral Dean’s Funeral: our pp. 198, 218, 206);
for in the later volume are found other songs on events contemporary
with these, which, being rightly considered to be of abiding interest,
were retained. 3. It was not that the songs rejected were too common,
and easily attainable; for they are almost all of extreme rarity, and
now-a-days not procurable elsewhere. 4. It must have been a whim that
ostracised them, and accepted novelties instead! At any rate, here they
are! As in the case of the sheet from _Westminster-Drollery_, 1674 (see
p. 177), readers possess the Extra Songs of both early and late editions,
along with all that are common to both, and this without confusion.

Almost all of these _Merry Drollery_ Extra Songs were written before the
Restoration; of a few we know the precise date, as of 1653, 1650, 1623,
&c. These are chiefly on political events, viz. the Funeral of Admiral
Dean, so blithely commented on, with forgetfulness of the man’s courage
and skill while remembering him only as an associate of rebels; the
story of England’s Woe (certainly published before the close of 1648),
with scorn against the cant of Prynne and Burton; the noisy, insensate
revel of the song on the Goldsmith’s Committee (1647, p. 237), where
we can see in the singers such unruly cavaliers as those who brought
discredit and ruin; as also in the coarser “Letany” (on our page 241);
and in the still earlier description of New England (before 1643), which
forms a most important addition to the already rich material gathered
from these contemporary records, shewing the views entertained of the
nonconforming and irreconcileable zealots who held close connection with
the discontented Dutchmen. Although caricatured and maliciously derisive,
it is impossible to doubt that we have here a group of portraits
sufficiently life-like to satisfy those who beheld the originals. As
to the miscellaneous pieces, the Sham-Tinker, who comes to “Clout the
Cauldron,” has genuine mirth to redeem the naughtiness. Dr. Corbet’s(?)
“Merrie Journey into France” is crammed full of pleasantry, and while
giving a record of sights that met the traveller, enlivens it with airy
gaiety that makes us willing companions. This, with variations, may
be met with elsewhere in print; but not so the delightfully sportive
invitation of The Insatiate Lover to his Sweetheart, “Come hither, my
own Sweet Duck” (p. 247). To us it appears among the best of these
thirty-five additions: musical and fervent, without coarseness, the song
of an ardent lover, who fears nothing, and is ripe for any adventure
that war may offer. One of Rupert’s reckless Cavaliers may have sung
this to his Mistress. Of course it would be unfair to blame him for not
being awake to the higher beauty of such a sentiment as Montrose felt and

  But if thou wilt prove faithful, then,
    And constant of thy word,
  I’ll make thee glorious by my pen,
    And famous by my sword:
  I’ll serve thee in such noble ways
    Was never heard before;
  I’ll crown and deck thee all with bays,
    And love thee more and more.

Or, as Lovelace nobly sings:—

  Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde,
    That from the nunnerie
  Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde
    To warre and armes I flie.

  True: a new Mistresse now I chase,
    The first foe in the field;
  And with a stronger faith embrace
    A sword, a horse, a shield.

  Yet this inconstancy is such
    As you too shall adore;
  I could not love thee, dear, so much,
    Lov’d I not Honour more.

_C’est magnifique! mais ce n’est pas—L’amour._ At least, and we imply
no more, Lovelace and those who act on such high principles, find their
_Lux Casta_ marrying some neighbouring rival. But we may be sure that
the singer of our _Merry Drollery_ ditty won _his_ Lass, literally in a

Part I., p. 2 [our p. 195.] _A Puritan of late._

Compare John Cleveland’s “Zealous Discourse between the
Independent-Parson and Tabitha,” “Hail Sister,” &c. (_J. C. Revived_,
1662, p. 108); and also the superior piece of humour, beginning, “I came
unto a Puritan to wooe,” _M. D., C._, p. 77. The following description of
the earlier sort of Precisian, ridiculous but not yet dangerous, is by
Richard Brathwaite, and was printed in 1615:—

_To the Precisian._

  _For the Precisian that dares hardly looke,_
  _(Because th’ art pure, forsooth) on any booke,_
  _Save Homilies, and such as tend to th’ good_
  _Of thee and of thy zealous brother-hood:_
  _Know my Time-noting lines ayme not at thee,_
  _For thou art too too curious for mee._
  _I will not taxe that man that’s wont to slay_
  “His Cat for killing mise on th’ Sabbath day:[”]
  _No; know my resolution it is thus,_
  _I’de rather be thy foe then be thy pus:_
  _And more should I gaine by’t: for I see,_
  _The daily fruits of thy fraternity:_
  _Yea, I perceiue why thou my booke should shun,_
  _“Because there’s many faultes th’ art guiltie on:”_
  _Therefore with-drawe, by me thou art not call’d,_
  _Yet do not winch (good iade) when thou art gall’d,_
  _I to the better sort my lines display,_
  _I pray thee then keep thou thy selfe away._

                              (_A Strappado for the Diuell_, 1615.)

The sixth line offers another illustration of what has been ably
demonstrated by J. O. Halliwell, commenting on the “_too-too_ solid
flesh” of _Hamlet_, Act i. sc. 2, in Shakespeare Soc. Papers, i. 39-43,

By it being printed within double quotational commas, we see that the
reference to a Puritan hanging his cat on a Monday, for having profanely
caught a mouse on the Sabbath-Sunday, was already an old and familiar
joke in 1615. James Hogg garbled a ballad in his _Jacobite Relics_,
1819, i. 37, as “_There was a ~Cameronian~ Cat, Was hunting for a
prey_,” &c., but we have a printed copy of it, dated 1749, beginning
“_A ~Presbyterian~ Cat sat watching of her prey_.” Also, in a poem “On
Lute-strings, Cat-eaten,” we read:—

  _Puss, I will curse thee, maist thou dwell_
  _With some dry Hermit in a Cel,_
  _Where Rat ne’re peep’d, where Mouse ne’er fed,_
  _And Flies go supperlesse to bed:_
  _Or with some close par’d Brother, where_
  _Thou’lt fast each Sabbath in the yeare,_
  _Or else, profane, be hang’d on Monday,_
  _For butchering a Mouse on Sunday_, &c.

                                (_Musarum Deliciæ_, 1656, _p._ 53.)

John Taylor, the Water-Poet, so early as 1620, writes of a Brownist:—

  _The Spirit still directs him how to pray,_
  _Nor will he dress his meat the Sabbath day,_
  _Which doth a mighty mystery unfold;_
  _His zeale is hot, although his meat be cold._
  _Suppose his Cat on Sunday kill’d a rat,_
  _She on the Monday must be hang’d for that._

                                (J. P. C.’s _Bibl. Acc._, ii. 418.)

Page 11 [our 197]. _I dreamt my Love, &c._

In the _Percy Folio MS._ (about 1650) p. 480; E. E. T. S., iv. 102, with
a few variations, one of which we have noted in margin of p. 181. The
industrious editors of the printed text of the _Percy Folio MS._ were
not aware of the fact that many of the shorter pieces were already to
be found in print; but this is no wonder. They are not easy to discover
(see next p. 352), and although we ourselves note occasionally “not found
elsewhere,” it is with the remembrance that a happy “find” may yet reward
a continuous search hereafter. We do not despair of recovering even the
lost line of “The Time-Poets.”

Page 12 [our 198]. _Now ~Lambert’s~ sunk, &c._

In the 1662 edit. of the _Rump_, i. 330, and in _Loyal Sgs._, 1731,
i. 219. It may have been written so early as Jan. 15th, 1659-60, when
Col. Lambert had submitted to the Parliament, on finding the troops
disinclined to support him unanimously. Another ballad made this inuendo:—

  _~John Lambert~ at ~Oliver’s~ Chair did roare,_
  _And thinks it but reason upon this score,_
  _That ~Cromwell~ had sitten in his before;_
          _Still blessed Reformation._

                                                  (_Rump_, ii. 99.)

Fairfax had returned to his house, and to Monk were given the thanks of
the rescued Parliament. As M. de Bordeaux writes of him to Card. Mazarin,
at this exact date, “he is now the most powerful subject in the whole
nation. Fleetwood, Desborough, and all the others of the same faction are
entirely out of employment” (Guizot’s _Monk_, 1851, p. 156). Although no
mention or definite allusion seems made in the ballad to Monk’s attack on
the London defences, Feb. 9th, we incline to think this may be nearer to
the true date: if it refers to the oath of abjuration, of Feb. 4th, which
was offered to Monk, as on March 1st. “Arthur’s Court” is an allusion to
Sir Arthur Haselrig, “a rapacious, head-strong, and conceited agitator”
(_Ibid._, p. 37). Monk had not publicly declared himself for the King
until May; but he was seen to be opposed to the Rump by 11th Feb., when
its effigies were enthusiastically burnt. Richard Cromwell’s abdication
had been, virtually, April 22nd, 1659.

Page 32 [204]. _A young man walking all alone._

This is another of the songs contained in the _Percy Folio MS_. (p. 460;
iv. 92 of print); wrongly supposed to be otherwise lost, but imperfect
there, our fourth and fifth verses being absent. We cannot accept “_if
that I may thy favour haue, thy bewtye to behold_,” as the true reading;
while we find “_If that thy favour I may win With thee for to be bold_:”
which is much more in the Lover’s line of advance. Yet we avail ourselves
of the “I am so _mad_” in 3rd verse, because it rhymes with “maidenhead,”
in _M. D._, though not suiting with the “honestye” of the _P. F. MS._ The
final half-verse is different.

Page 56 [206]. _~Nick Culpepper~ and ~Wm. Lilly~._

Also in 1662 edition of the _Rump_, i. 308; and _Loyal Songs_, 1731, i.
192. The event referred to happened in June, 1653, the engagement between
the English and Dutch fleets commencing on the 2nd, renewed the next day.
Six of the Dutch ships were sunk, and twelve taken, with thirteen hundred
prisoners. _Blake_, _Monk_, and _Dean_ were the English commanders, until
_Dean_ was killed, the first day. Monk took the sole command on the next.
Clarendon gives an account of the battle, and says: “_Dean_, one of the
_English_ Admirals, was killed by a cannon-shot from the Rear-Admiral of
the _Dutch_,” before night parted them. “The loss of the _English_ was
greatest in their General _Dean_. There was, beside him, but one Captain,
and about two hundred Common Sea-men killed: the number of the wounded
was greater; nor did they lose one Ship, nor were they so disabled but
that they followed with the whole fleet to the coast of _Holland_,
whither the other fled; and being got into the _Flie_ and the _Texel_,
the English for some time blocked them up in their own Harbors, taking
all such Ships as came bound for those parts.” (_His. Reb._, B. iii. p.
487, ed. 1720.)

Verse 1. Nicholas Culpeper, of Spittle Fields, near London, published his
_New Method of Physick_, and Alchemy, in 1654.

As to William Lilly, “the famous astrologer of those times, who in his
yearly almanacks foretold victories for the Parliament with so much
certainty as the preachers did in their sermons,” consult his letter
written to Elias Ashmole, and the notes of Dr. Zachary Gray to Butler’s
_Hudibras_, Part ii. Canto 3. “He lived to the year 1681, being then near
eighty years of age, and published predicting almanacks to his death.”
He was one of the close committee to consult about the King’s execution
(_Echard_). He lost much of his repute in 1652; in 1655 he was indicted
at Hickes Hall, but acquitted. He dwelt at Hersham, Walton-on-Thames,
and elsewhere. Henry Coley followed him in almanack-making, and John
Partridge next. In the Honble. Robt. Howard’s Comedy, “The Committee,”
1665, we find poor Teague has been consulting Lilly:—

  “_I will get a good Master, if any good Master wou’d_
  _Get me; I cannot tell what to do else, by my soul, that_
  _I cannot; for I have went and gone to one LILLY’S;_
  _He lives at that house, at the end of another house,_
  _By the ~May-pole~ house; and tells every body by one_
  _Star, and t’other Star, what good luck they shall have._
  _But he cou’d not tell nothing for poor ~Teg~._”

                                          (_The Committee_, Act i.)

Verse 12. The Master of the Rolls. This was Sir Dudley Digges, builder
of Chilham Castle, near Canterbury, Kent, who had in 1627 moved the
impeachment of the Duke of Buckingham, and been rewarded with this

Verse 18. Alludes to the rigorous suppression of the Play-houses (_vide
ante_ p. 285, for a descriptive Song); and as we see from verse 17,
the Bear-garden, like Rope-dancers and Tumblers, met more tolerance
than actors (except from Colonel Pride). Not heels were feared, but
heads and hands. Bears, moreover, could not stir up men to loyalty, but
tragedy-speeches might. One Joshua Gisling, a Roundhead, kept bears at
Paris Garden, Southwark.

23. “Goodman _Lenthall_,” “neither wise nor witty,” (“that creeps to the
house by a backdoor,” _Rump_, ii. 185,) the Speaker of the Commons from
1640 to 1653; Alderman _Allen_, the dishonest and bankrupt goldsmith,
both rebuked by _Cromwell_, when he forcibly expelled the Rump. (See the
ballad on pp. 62-5 of _M. D., C._, verses 9 and 10, telling how “_Allen_
the coppersmith was in great fear. He had done as [i.e. _us_] much hurt,”
&c.; also 2, 15, for the dumb-foundered “Speaker without his Mace.”) This
Downfall of the Rump had been on April 20th, 1653, not quite three months
before the funeral of _Dean_. Whoever may have been the writer of this
spirited ballad, we believe, wrote the other one also: judging solely by
internal evidence.

24. _Henry Ireton_, who married Bridget Cromwell in January, 1646-7,
and escaped from the Royalists after having been captured at Naseby,
proved the worst foe of Charles, insatiably demanding his death, died
in Ireland of the plague, 15th November, 1651. His body was brought to
Bristol in December, and lay in state at Somerset House. Over the gate
hung the “hatchment” with “_Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_”—which
one of the Cavaliers delightedly translated, “Good it is for his country
that he is dead.” Like Dean’s, two years later, Ireton’s body was buried
with ostentatious pomp in Henry VII.’s Chapel, (Feb. 6 or 7;) to be
ignominiously treated at Tyburn after the Restoration. The choice of so
royal a resting-place brought late insult on many another corpse. His
widow was speedily married to Charles Fleetwood, before June, 1652.

In verse 26, we cannot with absolute certainty fill the blank. Yet, in
the absence of disproof, we can scarcely doubt that the name suppressed
was neither _Sexby_, “an active agitator,” who, in 1658, employed against
Cromwell “all that restless industry which had formerly been exerted in
his favour” (Hume’s _Hist. Engd._, cap. lxi.); nor “Doomsday Sedgwick;”
not _Sidney_, staunch Republican, Algernon Sidney, whose condemnation was
in 1687 secured most iniquitously, and whose death more disgracefully
stains the time than the slaughter of Russell, although sentimentalism
chooses the latter, on account of his wife. Sidney was “but a young
member” at the Dissolution of 20th April, 1653. Probably the word was
_Say_, the notorious “Say and Seale,” “Crafty Say,” of whom we read:—

  _There’s half-witted ~Will Say~ too,_
  _A right Fool in the Play too,_
  _That would make a perfect Ass,_
      _If he could learn to Bray too._

                  (“Chips of the Old Block,” 1659; _Rump_, ii. 17.)

Page 64 [213]. _I went from ~England~, &c._

A MS. assertion gives the date of this _Cantilena de Gallico itinere_ as
1623. There seems to us no good reason for doubting that the author was
DR. RICHARD CORBET (1582-1635), Bishop of Oxford, afterwards of Norwich.
It is signed Rich. Corbett in Harl. MS. No. 6931, fol. 32, _reverso_,
and appears among his printed poems, 3rd edit. 1672, p. 129. In _Wit and
Mirth_, 1684, p. 76, it is entitled “Dr. Corbet’s Journey,” &c. But it
is fair to mention that we have found it assigned to R. GOODWIN, by the
epistolary gossip of inaccurate old Aubrey (see Col. Franc. Cunningham’s
_“Mermaid edit.” of Ben Jonson_, i. Memoirs, p. lvii. first note). In
a recent edition of Sir John Suckling’s Works, 1874, it is printed as
if by him (“There is little doubt that it is his”), i. 102, without any
satisfactory external evidence being adduced in favour of Suckling. In
fact, the external evidence goes wholly against the theory. The very MS.
Harl. 367, which is used as authority, is both imperfect and corrupt
throughout, as well as anonymous (_ex. gratiæ_, misreading the _Bastern_,
for Bastile), and the date on it, 1623, will not suit Suckling at all:
though Sir Hy. Ellis is guessed (by his supposed handwriting,) to
have attributed it to him. Could it be possible that he was otherwise
unacquainted with the poem?

At earlier date than our own copy we find it, by Aug. 30th, 1656, in
_Musarum Deliciæ_, p. 17, and in _Parnassus Biceps_, also 1656, p. 24.
From this (as well as Harl. MS. 367) we gain corrections printed as our
_marginalia_, pp. 214-6: _deserv’d_, for received; _statue_ stairs, At
_Nôtre Dame_; prate, _doth_ please, &c. Harl. MS. 367 reads “The Indian
_Roc_” [probably it is correct]; and “As great and wise as Luisuè”
[Luines, who died 1622]. _Parnassus Biceps_ has an extra verse, preceding
the one beginning “His Queen,” (and Harl. 367 has it, but inferior):—

  _The people don’t dislike the youth,_
  _Alleging reasons. For in truth_
      _Mothers should honoured be._
  _Yet others say, he loves her rather_
  _As well as ere she loved his father,_
      _And that’s notoriously._

(A similar scandal meets us in other early French reigns: Diana de
Poictiers had relations with Henry II., as well as with his father,
Francis I., &c.) Compare _West. Droll._, i. 87, and its Appendix, pp.

It may be a matter of personal taste, but we cannot recognize the genial
Bishop in the “R. C., Gent.,” who wrote “The Times Whistle.” A reperusal
of the E. E. T., 1871, almost _convinces_ us that they were not the same
person. We must look elsewhere for the author.

In MS., on fly leaf, prefixed to 1672 edition of Dr. Corbet’s poems, in
the Brit. Mus. (press mark, 238, b. 56), we read:—

  _If flowing wit, if Verses wrote with ease,_
  _If learning void of pedantry can please,_
  _If much good humour, join’d to solid sense,_
  _And mirth accompanied by Innocence,_
  _Can give a Poet a just right to fame,_
  _Then CORBET may immortal honour claim._
  _For he these virtues had, & in his lines_
  _Poetick and Heroick spirit shines._
  _Tho’ bright yet solid, pleasant but not rude,_
  _With wit and wisdom equally endued._
  _Be silent Muse, thy praises are too faint,_
  _Thou want’st a power this prodigy to paint,_
  _At once a Poet, Prelate, and a Saint._

                                             Signed, John Campbell.

Page 85 [218]. _I mean to speak of ~England’s~_, &c.

In the 1662 _Rump_, i. 39; and in _Loyal Songs_, 1731, i. 12. It is also
in _Parnassus Biceps_ so early as 1656, p. 159, where we obtain a few
peculiar readings; even in the first line, which has “of England’s fate;”
“Prin _and_ Burton;” “_wear ~Italian~ locks for their abuse_ (instead
of “Stallion locks for a bush”); They’ll only have private _keyes_ for
their use,” &c. We are inclined to accept these as correct readings,
although our text (agreeing with the _Rump_) holds an intelligible
meaning. But those who have inspected the curiosities preserved in the
Hôtel de Cluny, at Paris, can scarcely have forgotten “the Italian
[pad-] Locks” which jealous husbands imposed upon their wives, as a
preservative of chastity, whenever they themselves were obliged to leave
their fair helpmates at home; and the insinuation that Prynne and Burton
intended to introduce such rigorous precautions, nevertheless retaining
“private keyes” for their own use, has a covert satire not improbable
to have been intentional. Still, remembering the persistent war waged
by these intolerant Puritans against “the unloveliness of love-locks,”
there are sufficient claims for the text-reading: in their denunciation
of curled ringlets “as Stallion locks” hung out “for a bush,” or sign
of attraction, such as then dangled over the wine-shop door (and may
still be seen throughout Italy), although “good wine needs no bush” to
advertise it. Instead of “The brownings,” (i.e. _The Brownists_, a sect
that arose in the reign of Elizabeth, founded by Robt. Browne), in final
verse, _Parnassus Biceps_ reads “The Roundheads.” The poem was evidently
written between 1632 and 1642. Strengthening the probability of “Italian
locks” being the correct reading, we may mention in one of the _Rump_
ballads, dated 26 January, 1660-1, we find “The Honest Mens Resolution”
is to adopt this very expedient:—

  “_But what shall we do with our Wives_
    _That frisk up and down the Town, ..._
  _For such a Bell-dam,_
  _Sayes ~Sylas~ and ~Sam~,_
    _Let’s have an ~Italian~ Lock!_”

                                     (_Rump_ Coll., 1662, ii. 199.)

Page 88 [220]. _Hang Chastity, &c._

Probably refers to the New Exchange, at Durham House stables (see
Additional Note to page 134 of _M. D., C._). Certainly written before
1656. Lines 15 and 32 lend some countenance, by similarity, to the
received version in the previous song’s sixth verse.

Page 95 [222]. _It was a man, and a jolly, &c._

With some trifling variations, this re-appears as “The Old Man and Young
Wife,” beginning “_There was an old man, and a jolly old man, come love
me_,” &c., in _Wit and Mirth_, 1684, p. 17. The tune and burden of “The
Clean Contrary Way” held public favour for many years. See _Pop. Mus. O.
T._, pp. 425, 426, 781. In the 1658 and 1661 editions of _Choyce Poems_
[by John Eliot, and others], pp. 81, are a few lines of verse upon “The
Fidler’s” that were committed for singing a song called, “_The Clean
Contrary Way_”:—

  _The Fidlers must be whipt the people say,_
  _Because they sung ~the clean contrary way~;_
  _Which if they be, a Crown I dare to lay_
  _They then will sing ~the clean contrary way~._
  _And he that did these merry Knaves betray,_
  _Wise men will praise, ~the clean contrary way~:_
  _For whipping them no envy can allay,_ [p. 82.]
  _Unlesse it be ~the clean contrary way~._
      _Then if they went the Peoples tongues to stay,_
      _Doubtless they went ~the clean contrary way~._

Page 134 [223]. _There was a Lady in this Land._

Re-appears in _Wit and Drollery_, 1682, p. 291 (not in the 1656 and
1661 editions), as “The Jovial Tinker,” but with variations throughout,
so numerous as to amount to absolute re-casting, not by any means an
improvement: generally the contrary. Here are the second and following
verses, of _Wit and Drollery_ version:—

  _But she writ a letter to him,_
  _And seal’d it with her hand,_
  _And bid him become a Tinker_
  _To clout both pot and pan._

  _And when he had the Letter,_
  _Full well he could it read;_
  _His Brass and eke his Budget,_ [p. 292.]
  _He streight way did provide,_

  _His Hammer and his Pincers_
  _And well they did agree_
  _With a long Club on his Back_
  _And orderly came he._

  _And when he came to the Lady’s Gates_
  _He knock’d most lustily,_
  _Then who is there the Porter said,_
  _That knock’st thus ruggedly?_

  _I am a Jovial Tinker, &c._

The words of a later Scottish version of “Clout the Cauldron,” beginning
“Hae ye ony pots or pans, Or ony broken Chandlers?” (attributed by
Allan Cunningham to one Gordon) retouched by Allan Ramsay, are in his
_Tea-Table Miscellany_, 1724, Pt. i. (p. 96 of 17th edit., 1788.) Burns
mentions a tradition that the song “was composed on one of the Kenmure
family in the Cavalier time.” But the disguised wooer of the later
version is repulsed by the lady. Ours is undoubtedly the earlier.

Page 148 [230]. _Upon a Summer’s day._

The music to this is given in Chappell’s _Pop. Music of Olden Time_
[1855], p. 255, from the _Dancing Master_, 1650-65, and _Musick’s
Delight on the Cithern_, 1666, where the tune bears the title “Upon a
Summer’s day.” In Pepy’s Collection, vol. i. are two other songs to the
same tune.

Page 153 [Suppl. 3]. _Mine own sweet honey, &c._

Evidently a parody, or “Mock” of “Come hither, my own,” &c., for which,
and note, see pp. 247, 367.

Second Part of _Merry Drollery_, 1661.

Page 22 [235]. _You that in love, &c._

A different version of this same song, only half its length, in four-line
stanzas, had appeared in J. Cotgrave’s _Wit’s Interpreter_, 1655, p. 124.
It is also in the 1671 edition, p. 229; and in _Wit and Drollery_, 1682
edit., 287, entitled “The Tobacconist.” We prefer the briefer version,
although bound to print the longer one; bad enough, but not nearly so
gross as another On Tobacco, in _Jovial Drollery_, 1656, beginning “When
I do smoak my nose with a pipe of Tobacco.”

In the Collection of Songs by the Wits of the Age, appended to _Le
Prince d’Amour_, 1660, (but on broadsheet, 1641) we find the following
far-superior lyric on


  _To feed on Flesh is Gluttony,_
    _It maketh men fat like swine._
  _But is not he a frugal Man_
    _That on a leaf can dine!_

  _He needs no linnen for to foul,_
    _His fingers ends to wipe,_
  _That hath his Kitchin in a Box,_
    _And roast meat in a Pipe._

  _The cause wherefore few rich mens sons_
    _Prove disputants in Schools,_
  _Is that their fathers fed on flesh,_
    _And they begat fat fools._

  _This fulsome feeding cloggs the brain,_
    _And doth the stomack cloak;_
  _But he’s a brave spark that can dine_
    _With one light dish of smoak._

_Audi alterem partem!_ Five years earlier (May 28th, 1655), William
Winstanley had published “A Farewell to Tobacco,” beginning:—

  _Farewell thou Indian smoake, Barbarian vapour,_
  _Enemy unto life, foe to waste paper,_
  _Thou dost diseases in thy body breed,_
  _And like a Vultur on the purse doth feed._
  _Changing sweet breaths into a stinking loathing,_
  _And with 3 pipes turnes two pence into nothing;_
  _Grim ~Pluto~ first invented it, I think,_
  _To poison all the world with hellish stink_, &c.

  (18 lines more. _The Muses’ Cabinet_, 1655, p. 13.)

The three pipes for two-pence was a cheapening of Tobacco since the days,
not a century before, when for price it was weighed equally against gold.
Our early friend Arthur Tennyson wrote in one of our (extant) Florentine
sketch-books the following _impromptu_ of his own:—

  _I walk’d by myself on the highest of hills,_
  _And ’twas sweet, I with rapture did own;_
  _As fish-like I opened unto it my gills_
  _And gulp’d it in ecstasy down;_
  _To feel it breathe over my bacca-boiled tongue,_
  _That so much of its fragrance did need,_
  _And brace up completely a system unstrung_
  _For months with this ~Devil’s own Weed~._

But even so early as 1639, Thomas Bancroft had printed, (written thirteen
years before) in his _First Booke of Epigrammes_, the following,


  _The Old Germans, that their Divinations made_
  _From Asses heads upon hot embers laid,_
  _Saw they but now what frequent fumes arise_
  _From such dull heads, what could they prophetize_
  _But speedy firing of this worldly frame,_
  _That seemes to stinke for feare of such a flame._

                  (_Two Bookes of Epigrammes_, No. 183, sign. E 3.)

We need merely refer to other Epigrams On Tobacco, as “Time’s great
consumer, cause of idlenesse,” and “Nature’s Idea,” &c., in _Wit’s
Recreations_, 1640-5, because they are accessible in the recent Reprint
(would that it, _Wit Restored_ and _Musarum Deliciæ_ had been carefully
edited, as they deserved and needed to be; but even the literal reprint
of different issues jumbled together pell-mell is of temporary service):
see vol. ii., pp. 45, 38; and 96, 97, 139, 161, 227, 271. Also p.
430, for the “Tryumph of Tobacco over Sack and Ale,” attributed to F.
Beaumont, (if so, then before 1616) telling

      _Of the Gods and their symposia;_
  _But Tobacco alone,_
  _Had they known it, had gone_
      _For their Nectar and Ambrosia;_

and vol. i. p. 195, on “A Scholler that sold his Cussion” to buy tobacco.
It is but an imperfect version on ii. 96, headed “A Tobacconist” (eight
lines), of what we gave from _Le Prince d’Amour_: it begins “All dainty
meats I doe defie, || Which feed men fat as swine.” Answered by No. 317,
“On the Tobacconist,” p. 97. By the way: “Verrinus” in _M. D., C._, pp.
10, 364, consult _History of Signboards_, p. 354—“_Puyk van Verinas en
Virginia Tabac_;” Englished, “Tip-Top Varinas,” &c.

Page 27 [237]. _Come Drawer, some Wine._

Probably written by THOMAS WEAVER, and about 1646-8. It is in his
collection entitled _Love and Drollery_, 1654, p. 13. Also in the 1662
_Rump_, i. 235; and the _Loyal Garland_, 1686 (Percy Soc. Reprint, xxix.
31). Compare a similar Song (probably founded on this one) by Sir Robt.
Howard, in his Comedy, “The Committee,” Act iv., “Come, Drawer, some
Wine, Let it sparkle and shine,”—or, the true beginning, “Now the Veil
is thrown off,” &c. The Committee of Sequestration of Estates belonging
to the Cavaliers sat at Goldsmith’s Hall, while Charles was imprisoned
at Carisbrook, in 1647. A ballad of that year, entitled “Prattle your
pleasure under the Rose,” has this verse:—

  _Under the rose be it spoken, there’s a damn’d ~Committee~,_
  _Sits in hell (~Goldsmith’s Hall~) in the midst of the City,_
  _Only to sequester the poor Cavaliers,—_
  _The Devil take their souls, and the hangmen their ears._

(As Hamlet says, “You pray not well!”—but such provocation transfers the
blame to those who caused the anger.)

Again, in another Ballad, “I thank you twice,” dated 21st August, same
year, 1647:—

  _The gentry are sequestered all;_
  _Our wives we find at ~Goldsmith’s Hall~,_
  _For there they meet with the devil and all,_
          _Still, God a-mercy, Parliament!_

On our p. 239, it is amusing to find reference to “the Cannibals of Pym,”
remembering how Lilburn and others of that party indulged in similar
accusations of cannibalism, with specific details against “Bloody Bones,
or Lunsford” (_Hudibras_, Pt. iii. canto 2), who was killed in 1644.
Thus, “From _Lunsford_ eke deliver us, || That eateth up children” (Rump
i. 65); and Cleveland writes, “He swore he saw, when _Lunsford_ fell, ||
A child’s arm in his pocket” (J. C. _Revived, Poems_, 1662, p. 110).

Page 32 [240]. _Listen, Lordings, to my story._

With the music, this reappears in _Pills to p. Mel_., 1719, iv. 84,
entitled “The Glory of all Cuckolds.” Variations few, and unimportant:
“The Man in Heaven’s” being a very doubtful reading. In the Douce
Collection, iv. 41, 42, are two broadsides, A New Summons to Horn Fair,
beginning “You horned fumbling Cuckolds, In City, court, or Town,”
and (To the women) “Come, all you merry jades, who love to play the
game,” with capital wood-cuts: Jn Pitts, printer. They recal Butler’s
description of the Skrimmington. The joke was much relished. Thus, in
_Lusty Drollery_, 1656, p. 106, is a Pastorall Song, beginning:—

  _A silly poor sheepherd was folding his sheep,_
  _He walked so long he got cold in his feet,_
  _He laid on his coales by two and by three,_
  _The more he laid on_
    _The Cu-colder was he._

Three verses more, with the recurring witticism; repeated finally by his

Page 33 [Supp. 6]. _Discourses of late, &c._

Also, earlier in _Musarum Deliciæ_, 1656, (Reprint, p. 48) as “The
Louse’s Peregrinations,” but without the sixth verse. _Breda_, in the
Netherlands, was beseiged by Spinola for ten months, and taken in 1625.
_Bergen_, in our text, is a corrupt reading.

Page 38 [241]. _From ~Essex~-Anabaptist Lawes._

We do not understand whence it cometh that the most bitter non-conformity
and un-Christian crazes of enthusiasm seem always to have thriven in
Essex and the adjacent Eastern coast-counties, so far as Lincolnshire,
but the fact is undeniable. Whether (before draining the fens, see “The
Upland people are full of thoughts,” in _A Crew of kind London Gossips_,
1663, p. 65) this proceeded from their being low-lying, damp, dreary, and
dismal, with agues prevalent, and hypochondria welcome as an amusement,
we leave others to determine. Cabanis declared that Calvinism is a
product of the small intestines; and persons with weak circulation and
slow digestion are seldom orthodox, but incline towards fanaticism and
uncompromising dissent. Your lean Cassius is a pre-ordained conspirator.
Plain people, whether of features or dwelling-place, think too much
of themselves. Mountaineers may often hold superstitions, but of the
elemental forces and higher worship. They possess moreover a patriotic
love of their native hills, which makes them loth to quit, and eager to
revisit them, with all their guardian powers: the _nostalgia_ and _amor
patriæ_ are strongest in Highlanders, Switzers, Spanish muleteers, and
even Welsh milkmaids. It was from flat-coasted Essex that most of the
“peevish Puritans” emigrated to Holland, and thence to America, when
discontented with every thing at home.

The form of a Le’tanty or Litany, for such mock-petitions as those in
our text (not found elsewhere), and in _M. D., C._, p. 174, continued in
favour from the uprise of the Independents (simply because they hated
Liturgies), for more than a century. In the King’s Pamphlets, in the
various collections of _Loyal Songs_, _Songs on affairs of State_, the
_Mughouse Diversions_, _Pills to purge State Melancholly_, _Tory Pills_,
&c., we possess them beyond counting, a few being attributed to Cleveland
and to Butler. One, so early as 1600, “Good Mercury, defend us!” is the
work of Ben Johnson.

Verse 1.—The “Brownist’s Veal” refers to Essex calves, and the scandal of
one Green, who is said to have been a Brownist. 4.—“From her that creeps
up Holbourne hill:” the cart journey from Newgate to the “tree with three
corners” at Tyburn. _Sic itur ad astra._ When, Oct. 1654, Cromwell was
thrown from the coach-box in driving through Hyde park, a ballad on “The
Jolt on Michaelmas Day, 1654,” took care to point the moral:—

  _Not a day nor an hour_
  _But we felt his power,_
    _And now he would show us his art;_
  _His first reproach_
  _Is a fall from a coach,_
    And his last will be from a cart.

                                             (_Rump_ Coll. i. 362.)

Thus also in _M. D., C._ p. 255:

  Then _Oliver, Oliver_, get up and ride, ...
  Till thou plod’st along to the _Paddington tree_.

5.—“Duke Humphrey’s hungry dinner” refers to the tomb popularly supposed
to be of “the good Duke” Humphrey of Gloucester (murdered 1447), but
probably of Sir John Beauchamp (Guy of Warwick’s son), in Paul’s Walk,
where loungers whiled away the dinner-hour if lacking money for an
Ordinary, and “dined with Duke Humphrey.” See Dekker’s _Gulls Horn Book_,
1609, cap. iv. And Robt. Hayman writes:—

  _Though a little coin thy purseless pockets line,_
  _Yet with great company thou’rt taken up;_
  _For often with Duke ~Humfray~ thou dost dine,_
  _And often with Sir ~Thomas Gresham~ sup._

                                      (R. H.’s _Quodlibets_, 1628.)

“An old Aunt”—this term used by Autolycus, had temporary significance
apart from kinship, implying loose behaviour; even as “nunkle” or uncle,
hails a mirthful companion. In Roxb. Coll., i. 384, by L[aur.] P[rice],
printed 1641-83, is a description of three Aunts, “seldom cleanly,” but
they were genuine relations, though “the best of all the three” seems
well fitted by the _Letany_ description: which _may_ refer to her.

Page 46 [Supp. p. 7]. _If you will give ear._

A version of this, slightly differing, is given with the music in _Pills
to p. Mell._, iv. 191. It has the final couplet; which we borrow and add
in square brackets.

Page 61 [Supp. 9]. _Full forty times over._

Earlier by six years, but without the Answer, this had appeared in _Wit
and Drollery_, 1656, p. 58; 1661, p. 60. It is also, as “written at
Oxford,” in second part of _Oxford Drollery_, 1671, p. 97.

Page 62 [Supp. 11]. _He is a fond Lover_, &c.

This, and the preceding, being superior to the other reserved songs might
have been retained in the text but for the need to fill a separate sheet.
This Answer is in _Love and Mirth_ (i.e. _Sportive Wit_) 1650, p. 51.

Page 64 [Supp. 12]. _If any one do want a House._

Virtually the same (from the second verse onward) as “A Tenement to Let,”
beginning “I have a Tenement,” &c., in _Pills to p. Mel._, 1720, vi. 355;
and _The Merry Musician_ (n. d. but about 1716), i. 43. Music in both.

Page 81 [Supp. 13]. _Fair Lady, for your New, &c._

Resembling this is “_Ladies, here I do present you, With a dainty dish of
fruit_,” in _Wit and Drollery_, 1656, p. 103.

Page 103 [244]. _Among the Purifidian Sect._

In Harl. MS. No. 6057, fol. 47. There it is entitled “The Puritans of New

Page 106 [248]. _Come hither, my own sweet Duck._

We come delightedly, as a relief, upon this racy and jovial Love-song,
which redeems the close of the volume. It has the gaiety and _abandon_ of
John Fletcher’s and Richard Brome’s. We have never yet met it elsewhere.
It was probably written about 1642. The reserved song in Part i., p.
153 (Supplement, p. 3), seems to be a vile parody on it, in the coarse
fashion of those persons who disgraced the cause of the Cavaliers. The
rank and file were often base, and their brutality is evidenced in the
songs which we have been obliged to degrade to the Supplement.

It was certainly popular before 1659, for we find it quoted as furnishing
the tune to “A proper new ballad (25 verses) on the Old Parliament,”
beginning “Good Morrow, my neighbours all,” with a varying burden:—

  _Hei ho, my hony,_
      _My heart shall never rue,_
  _Four and twenty now for your Mony,_
      _And yet a hard penny worth too._

                                             (_Rump_, 1662 ii, 26.)

The music is in Playford’s _English Dancing Master_, 1686.

Page 116 [Supp. 14]. _She lay up to, &c._

Five years earlier, in _Wit and Drollery_, 1656, p. 56; 1661, p. 58. With
the original, in _M. D., C._, p. 300, compare the similar disappointment,
by Cleveland, “The Myrtle-Grove” (_Poems_, p. 160, edit. 1661.)

Page 149 [253]. _If that you will hear, &c._

This is the same, except a few variations, as “Will you please to hear
a new ditty?” in our _Westminster-Drollery_, 1671, i. 88; Appendix to
ditto, pp. xxxvi-vii (compare the coarser verses, p. 368 in present
volume, and “Upon the biting of Fleas,” in _Musarum Deliciæ_, 1656;
Reprint, p. 64.)

[We here close our Notes to the “Extra Songs” of _Merry Drollery_,
1661. But we have still some Additional Notes, on what is common to the
editions of 1661, 1670, and 1691 (as promised in _M. D., C._, p. 363).]


(_Common to all editions, 1661, ’70, ’91, and 1875._)

  “A pretty slight Drollery.”

                               (_Henry IV._, pt. 2. Act ii. Sc. 1.)


                              A COLLECTION

                               { Jovial POEMS,
                            Of { Merry SONGS,
                               { Witty DROLLERIES,

                   Intermixed with Pleasant _Catches_.

                             The First Part.

                              Collected by
                     _W.N._  _C.B._  _R.S._  _J.G._
                             LOVERS of WIT.

               Printed for _Simon Miller_, at the Star, at
                   the West End of St. _Pauls_, 1670.

_Title-page to 1670 Edition._

We here give the title-page of the 1670 Edition of _Merry Drollery,
Compleat_, Part 1st. As mentioned on our p. 231, the 1670 edition was
reissued as a new edition in 1691, but with no alteration except the
fresh title-page, with its date and statement of William Miller’s stock
in trade.

Of the four “Lovers of Wit,” 1661, we believe we have unearthed one, viz.
“R. S.,” in RALPH SLEIGH, who wrote a song beginning, “_Cupid, Cupid_,
makes men stupid; I’ll no more of such boys’ play;” (_Sportive Wit_,)
_Jovial Drollery_, 1656, p. 22.

_M. D., C._, p. 11 [13].

Verse 6. “Mahomet’s pidgeon,” that was taught to pick seeds from out his
ear, so that it might be thought to whisper to him. The “mad fellow clad
alwaies in yellow,” i.e., in his military Buff-coat—“And somewhat his
nose is blew, boys,” certainly alludes to Oliver Cromwell: His being
“King and no King,” to his refusing the Crown offered by the notables
whom he had summoned in 1657. As the “New Peers,” his sons Henry and
Richard among them, insulted and contemned by the later and mixed
Parliament of January 20th, 1658, were “turned out” along with their
foes the recalcitrant Commons, on Feb. 4th, we have the date of this
ballad established closely.

Page 29. _Nonsense. Now Gentlemen, if, &c._

Two other “Messes of Nonsense” may be found in _Recreations for Ingenious
Headpieces_, 1645 (Reprint, _Wit’s Recreations_, pp. 400, 401); beginning
“When _Neptune’s_ blasts,” and “Like to the tone of unspoke speeches.”
The latter we believe to have been written by Bishop Corbet. In _Wit’s
Merriment_ (i.e. _Sportive Wit_), 1656, is the following: A FANCY:—

  _When Py crust first began to reign,_
    _Cheese parings went to warre._
  _Red Herrings lookt both blew and wan,_
    _Green leeks and Puddings jarre._
  _Blind Hugh went out to see_
    _Two Cripples run a race,_
  _The Ox fought with the Humble Bee,_
    _And claw’d him by the face._

Page 36, lines 21, 22. _“Honest Dick;” and “L.”_

These lines furnish a clue to the date of this ballad, (and its
“Answer” quickly followed): “Honest Dick” being Richard Cromwell, whose
Protectorate lasted only eight months, beginning in September, 1658.
“The name with an L—” refers to his unscrupulous rival Lambert; with his
spasmodic attempts at supremacy, urged on by his own ambition and that
of his wife (accustomed too long to rule Oliver himself, during a close
intimacy, not without exciting scandal, while she insisted on displacing
Lady Dysart). For an account of Lambert’s twenty-one years of captivity,
first at Guernsey and later at Plymouth, see _Choice Notes on History,
from N. and Q._, 1858, pp. 155-163. Lambert played a selfish game, lost
it, and needs no pity for having had to pay the stakes. But for “Honest
Dick,” “Tumble down Dick,” who had warmly pleaded with his father to save
the king’s life in the fatal January of 1649, we keep a hearty liking.
Carlyle stigmatizes him as “poor, idle, trivial,” &c., but let that pass.
Had Richard been crafty or cruel, like those who removed him from power,
his reign might have been prolonged. But “what a wounded name” he would
have then left behind, compared with his now stainless character: and, in
any case, his ultimate fall was certain.

Page 43, line 16th, “_Call for a constable blurt._”

An allusion to Middleton’s Comedy, “Blurt, Master Constable,” 1602.

Page 62, 368. _Will you hear a strange thing._

The important event here described took place April 20th, 1653, and the
ballad immediately followed. (Compare “Cheer up, kind country men,” by
S. S., “Rebellion hath broken up house,” and “This Christmas time,”
in the Percy Soc. Pol. Bds., iii. 126; 180 _Loyal Songs_, 149, 1694;
_Rump_, ii. 52.) At this date the strife between the fag-end of the Rump
and Oliver, who was supported by his council of officers, came to open
violence. Fearing his increased power, it was proposed to strengthen
the Parliamentarians by admitting a body of “neutrals,” Presbyterians,
to act in direct opposition against the army-leaders. With a pretence
of dissolving themselves there would have ensued a virtual extension of
rule. Anxious and lengthy meetings had been held by Cromwell’s adherents
at Whitehall, one notably on the 19th, and continued throughout the
night. Despite a promise, or half promise, of delay made to him, the Rump
was meantime hurrying onward the objectionable measure, clearly with
intention of limiting his influence: among the leaders being Sir Hy.
Vane, Harry Marten, and Algernon Sidney. They knew it to be a struggle
for life or death. From the beginning, this Long Parliament cherished the
mistaken idea that they were everything supreme: providence, strength,
virtue, and wisdom, etc., etc. If mere empty talk could be all this,
such representative wind-bags might deserve some credit. Their doom was
sealed; not alone for their incompetence, but also for proved malignity,
and the attempt to perpetuate their own mischief, destroying the only
power that seemed able to bring order out of chaos.

Cromwell received intelligence, from his adherents within the house,
of the efforts being made to hurry the measure for settling the new
representation, and then to dissolve for re-election. Major Harrison
talked against time; until Cromwell could arrive after breaking up the
Whitehall meeting. Ingoldsby, as the second or third messenger, had
shown to him the urgent need of action. Followed by Lambert and some
half-dozen officers, the General took with him a party of soldiers,
reached the house, and found himself not too soon. Surrounding the
chamber, and guarding the doors, the troopers remained outside. Clad
in plain black, unattended and resolute, Oliver entered, stood looking
on his discomfitted foes, and then sat down, speaking to no one except
“dusky tough St. John, whose abstruse fanaticisms, crabbed logics, and
dark ambitions issue all, as was natural, in decided avarice” (Carlyle’s
_Cromwell_, iii. 168, 1671 edit.). Vane must have felt the peril, but
held on unflinchingly, imploring the house to dispense with everything
that might delay the measure, such as engrossing. The Speaker had risen
at last to put the question, before the General started up, uncovered,
and began his address. Something of stately commendation for past work
he gave them. Perhaps at first his words were uttered solely to obtain a
momentary pause, the whilst he gathered up his strength, and measured all
the chances, before he broke with them for ever. Soon the tone changed
into that of anger and contempt. He heaped reproaches on them: Ludlow
says: “He spoke with so much passion and discomposure of mind, as if he
had been distracted.” “Your time is come!” he told them: “The Lord has
done with you. He has chosen other instruments for the carrying on his
work, that are more worthy.”

Vane, Marten, and Sir Peter Wentworth tried to interrupt him, but it was
almost beyond their power. Wentworth could but irritate him by indignant
censure. He crushed his hat on, sprang from his place, shouting that
he would put an end to their prating, and, while he strode noisily
along the room, railed at them to their face, not naming them, but with
gestures giving point to his invectives. He told them to begone: “I say
you are no Parliament! I’ll put an end to your sitting. Begone! Give way
to honester men.” A stamp of his foot followed, as a signal; the door
flies open, “five or six files of musqueteers” are seen with weapons
ready. Resistance (so prompt, with less provocation, in 1642) is felt
to be useless, and, except mere feminine scolding, none is attempted.
Not one dares to struggle. Afraid of violence, their swords hang idly
at their side. As they pass out in turn, they meet the scathing of
Oliver’s rebuke. His control of himself is gone. Their crimes are not
forgotten. He denounces Challoner as a drunkard, Wentworth for his
adultery, Alderman Allen for his embezzlement of public military money,
and Bulstrode Whitelock of injustice. Harry Marten is asked whether
a whore-master is fit to sit and govern. Vane is unable to resist a
feeble protest, availing nothing—“This is not honest: Yea! it is against
morality and honesty.” In the absence of such crimes or flagrant sins
of his companions, as his own frozen nature made him incapable of
committing, there are remembered against him his interminable harangues,
his hair-splitting, his self-sufficiency; and all that early deliberate
treachery in ransacking his father’s papers, which he employed to cause
the death of Strafford. To all posterity recorded, came the ejaculation
of Cromwell: “Sir Harry Vane, Sir Harry Vane—the Lord deliver me from Sir
Harry Vane!” And, excepting a few dissentient voices, the said posterity
echoes the words approvingly. The “bauble” mace had been borne off
ignominiously, the documents were seized, including that of the unpassed
measure, the room was cleared, the doors were locked, and all was over.
The Long Parliament thus fell, unlamented.

Page 66. _I’le sing you a Sonnet._

Written and published in 1659; as we see by the references to “_Dick_
(_Oliver’s_ Heir) that pitiful slow-thing, Who was once invested with
purple clothing,”—his retirement being in April, 1659. Bradshaw, the
bitter Regicide (whose harsh vindictiveness to Charles I. during the
trial has left his memory exceptionally hateful), died 22nd November,
1659. Hewson the Cobbler was one of Oliver’s new peers, summoned in
January, 1658.

Pages 69, 368. _Be not thou so foolish nice._

The music to this, by Dr. John Wilson, is in his _Chearfull Ayres_,
1659-60, p. 126.

Pages 70, 369. _Aske me no more._

Gule is misprint for “Goal,” and refers to the Bishops who, having been
molested and hindered from attending to vote among the peers, were, on
30th December, 1642, committed to the Tower for publishing their protest
against Acts passed during their unwilling absence. Finch, Lord Keeper;
who, to save his life, fled beyond sea, and did not return until after
the Restoration.

Pages 72, 369. _A Sessions was held, &c._

To avoid a too-long interruption, our Additional Note to the “Sessions of
the Poets” is slightly displaced from here, and follows later as Section

Pages 87, 369. _Some Christian people all, &c._

We have traced this burlesque narrative of the Fire on London Bridge ten
years earlier than _Merry Drollery_, 1661, p. 81. It appeared (probably
for the first time in print) on April 28th, 1651, at the end of a volume
of _facetiæ_, entitled _The Loves of Hero and Leander_ (in the 1677
edition, following _Ovid de Arte Amandi_, it is on p. 142). The event
referred to, we suspect, was a destructive fire which broke out on London
Bridge, 13th Feb. 1632-3. It is thus described:—“At the latter end of the
year 1632, viz., on the 13th Feb., between eleven and twelve at night,
there happened in the house of one Briggs, a needle-maker, near St.
Magnus Church, at the north end of the bridge, by the carelessness of a
maid-servant, setting a tub of hot sea-coal ashes under a pair of stairs,
a sad and lamentable fire, which consumed all the buildings before eight
of the clock the next morning, from the north end of the bridge, to the
first vacancy on both sides, containing forty-two houses; _water being
then very scarce, the Thames being almost frozen over_. Beneath, in
the vaults and cellars, the fire remained burning and glowing a whole
week after. After which fire, the north end of the bridge lay unbuilt
for many years; only deal boards were set up on both sides, to prevent
people’s falling into the Thames, many of which deals were, by high
winds, blown down, which made it very dangerous in the nights, although
there were lanthorns and candles hung upon all the cross-beams that held
the pales together.” (Tho. Allen’s _Hist. and Antiq. of London_, vol.
ii. p. 468, 1828.) Details and list of houses burnt are given (as in
_Gent. Mag._ Nov. 1824), from the MS. _Record of the Mercies of God; or,
a Thankfull Remembrance_, 1618-1635 (since printed), kept by the Puritan
Nehemiah Wallington, citizen and turner, of London, a friend of Prynn and
Bastwick. He gives the date as Monday, 11th February, 1633. Our ballad
mentions the river being frozen over, and “all on the tenth of January;”
but nothing is more common than a traditional blunder of the month,
so long as the rhythm is kept. (Compare _Choyce Drollery_, p. 78, and
Appendix p. 297).

Another Fire-ballad (in addition to the coarse squib in present vol., pp.
33-7,) is “Zeal over-heated;” telling of a fire at Oxford, 1642; tune,
Chivey Chace; and beginning, “Attend, you brethren every one.” It is not
improbably by Thomas Weaver, being in his _Love and Drollery_, 1654, p.

Page 92, 370. _Cast your caps and cares away._

Of this song, from Beaumont and Fletcher’s “Beggar’s Bush,” bef. 1625,
the music set by Dr. John Wilson is in his _Cheerfull Ayres_, 1659-60, p.

Pages 97, 371. _Come, let us drink._

“Mahomet’s Pigeon,” a frequent allusion: compare _M. D. C._, pp. 11, 192;
and present appendix, p. 356.

Pages 100, 108 (App.) 371. _Satires on Gondibert._

See Additional Note in this vol. § 3, _post_, for a few words on
D’Avenant. Since printing _M. D. C._, we have been enabled (thanks to W.
F. Fowle, Esq., possessor of) to consult the very rare Second Satire,
1655, mentioned on p. 371. It is entitled, “The Incomparable Poem
GONDIBERT VINDICATED from the Wit-Combats of Four ESQUIRES, _Clinias_,
_Dametas_, _Sancho_, and _Jack Pudding_.” [With this three-fold motto:—]

  Χοτέει καὶ ἀοίδ τω ἀοίδω.
  _Vatum quoque gratia rara est._
  _One Wit-Brother_ || _Envies another_.

Printed in the year 1655.” It begins on p. 3, with a poetical address to
Sir Willm. Davenant, asking pardon beforehand in case his “yet-unhurt
Reputation” should suffer more through the champion than from the
attack made by the four “Cyclops, or Wit-Centaurs,” two of whom he
unhesitatingly names as “Denham and Jack Donne,” or “Jack Straw.” But
even thus early we notice the sarcasm against D’Avenant himself: when
in reference to the never-forgotten “flaws” in his face, the Defender

  Will _shew thy face_ (be’t what it will),
  _We’l push ’um yet a quill for quill_.

The third poem, p. 8, again to the Poet, mocks him as well as his
assailants’ lines (our _M. D. C._, p. 108) with twenty triplets:—

  _After so many poorer scraps_
  _Of Playes which nere had the mishaps_
  _To passe the stage without their claps, &c._

Next comes a poem “Upon the continuation of Gondibert,” “Ovid to Patmos
pris’ner sent.” (Later, we extract the chief lines for the “Sessions”
Add. Note.) He is told,

  _Wash thee in ~Avon~, if thou flie,_
  _My wary ~Davenant~ so high,_
  _Yet ~Hypernaso~ now you shall_
  _Ore fly this Goose so Capitall._ (p. 14.)

After five others, came one Upon the Author, beginning,

  _~Daphne~, secure of the buff,_
        _Prethee laugh,_
  _Yet at these four and their riff raff;_
        _Who can hold_
        _When so bold?_
  _And the trim wit of ~Coopers~ green hill_, ...

Ending thus:—

  _~Denham~, thou’lt be shrewdly shent_
        _To invent_
  _Such Drawlery for merriment, &c...._
  _A Drawing ~Donne~ out of the mire._

A burlesque of Gondibert on same p. 18, as “Canto the Second, or rather
Cento the first;” begins “_All in the Land of ~Bembo~ and of ~Bubb~_.”
One stanza partly anticipates Sam. Butler:—

  _The Sun was sunk into the watery lap_
    _Of her commands the waves, and weary there,_
  _Of his long journey, took a pleasing nap_
    _To ease his each daies travels all the year._

P. 23 gives “To _Daphne_ on his incomparable (and by the Critick
incomprehended) Poem, _Gondibert_,” this consolation: “Chear up, dear
friend, a _Laureat_ thou must be,” &c. Hobbes comes in for notice, on p.
24, and Denham with his Cooper’s Hill has another slap. The final poem,
on p. 27, is “Upon the Author’s writing his name, as in the Title of his
Booke, D’Avenant:”—


  “_Your Wits have further than you rode,_
  _You needed not to have gone abroad._
    _~D’avenant~ from ~Avon~ comes,_
    _Rivers are still the Muses Rooms._
  _~Dort~, knows our name, no more Durt on’t;_
  _An’t be but for that ~D’avenant~._


    _And when such people are restor’d_
    _(A thing belov’d by none that whor’d)_
  _My noches then may not appeare,_
  _The gift of healing will be near._
    _Meane while Ile seeke some ~Panax~ (salve of clowns)_
    _Shall heal the wanton Issues and crackt Crowns._
  _I will conclude, Farewell Wit Squirty ~Fegos~_
  _And drolling gasmen ~Wal-Den-De-Donne-Dego~._


Here, finally, are Waller, Denham, [Bro]de[rick], and Donne clearly
indicated. They receive harder measure, on the whole, than D’avenant
himself; so that the Second Volume of Satires, 1655, is neither by the
author of “Gondibert,” nor by those who penned the “Certain Verses” of
1653. Q. E. D.

Pages 101, 372. _I’ll tell thee, Dick, &c._

As already mentioned, the popularity of Suckling’s “Ballad on a Wedding”
(probably written in 1642) caused innumerable imitations. Some of these
we have indicated. In _Folly in Print_, 1667, is another, “On a Friend’s
Wedding,” to the same tune, beginning, “Now _Tom_, if _Suckling_ were
alive, And knew who _Harry_ were to wive.” In D’Urfey’s _Pills to Purge
Melancholy_, 1699, p. 81: ed. 1719, iii, 65, is a different “New Ballad
upon a Wedding” [at Lambeth], with the music, to same tune and model,
beginning, “The sleeping _Thames_ one morn I cross’d, By two contending
_Charons_ tost.” Like Cleveland’s poem, as an imitation it possesses
merit, each having some good verses.

Pages 111, 112. _The Proctors are two._

Among the references herein to Cambridge Taverns is one (3rd verse) to
the Myter: part of which fell down before 1635, and was celebrated in
verse by that “darling of the Muses,” Thomas Randolph. His lines begin
“Lament, lament, ye scholars all!” He mentions other Taverns and the
Mitre-landlord, Sam:—

  _Let the ~Rose~ with the ~Falcon~ moult,_
    _While ~Sam~ enjoys his wishes;_
  _The ~Dolphin~, too, must cast her crown:_
    _Wine was not made for fishes._

Pages 115, 374. _’Tis not the silver, &c._

The mention, on pp. 116, of “our bold Army” turning out the “black
Synod,” refers less probably to Colonel “_Pride’s Purge_” of the
Presbyterians, on 6th December, 1648, than to the events of April 20,
1653; and helps to fix the date to the same year. In 6th verse the blanks
are to be thus filled, “Arms of the _Rump_ or the _King_;” “C. R., or O.
P.;” the joke of “the breeches” being a supposed misunderstanding of the
Commonwealth-Arms on current coin (viz., the joined shields of England
and Ireland) for the impression made by Noll’s posteriors. Compare “Saw
you the States-Money,” in _Rump_ Coll., i. 289. On one side they marked
“God with us!”

  “_~Common-wealth~ on the other, by which we may guess_
  _~God~ and the ~States~ were not both of a side._”

Pages 121, 375. _Come, let’s purge our brains._

This song is almost certainly by THOMAS JORDAN, the City-Poet. With many
differences he reprints it later in his _London in Luster_, as sung at
the Banquet given by the Drapers Company, October 29th, 1679; where it
is entitled “The Coronation of Canary,” and thus begins (in place of our
first verse):—

  _Drink your wine away,_
      _’Tis my Lord Mayor’s day,_
      _Let our Cups and Cash be free._
  _Beer and Ale are both || But the sons of froth,_
      _Let us then in wine agree._
  _To taste a Quart || Of every sort,_
      _The thinner and the thicker;_
  _That spight of Chance || We may advance,_
      _The Nobler and the Quicker._
      _Who shall by Vote of every Throat_
        _Be crown’d the King of Liquor._


  _~Muscadel~ Avant, Bloody ~Alicant~,_
      _Shall have no free vote of mine;_
  _~Claret~ is a Prince, And he did long since_
      _In the Royal order shine._
  _His face, &c._, (as in _M. D. C._ p. 112.)

In sixth verse, “_If a ~Cooper~ we With a red nose see_,” refers to
Oliver Cromwell; and proves it to have been written before September,

Pages 125, 315. _Lay by, &c., Law lies a-bleeding._

The date of this ballad seems to have been 1656, rather than 1658. The
despotism of the sword here so powerfully described, was under those
persons who are on p. 254 of _M. D. C._ designated “Oliver’s myrmidons,”
meaning, probably, chiefly the major-generals of the military districts,
into which the country was divided after Penruddock’s downfall in 1655.
They were Desborough, Whalley, Goffe, Fleetwood, “downright” Skippon,
Kelsey, Butler, Worseley, and Berry; to these ten were added Barkstead.
Compare Hallam’s account:—“These were eleven in number, men bitterly
hostile to the royalist party, and insolent to all civil authority. They
were employed to secure the payment of a tax of ten per cent., imposed
by Cromwell’s arbitrary will on those who had ever sided with the King
during the late wars, where their estates exceeded £100 per annum. The
major-generals, in their correspondence printed among Thurloe’s papers,
display a rapacity and oppression greater than their master’s. They
complain that the number of those exempted is too great; they press
for harsher measures; they incline to the unfavourable construction in
every doubtful case; they dwell on the growth of malignancy and the
general disaffection. It was not indeed likely to be mitigated by this
unparalleled tyranny. All illusion was now gone as to the pretended
benefits of the civil war. It had ended in a despotism, compared to which
all the illegal practices of former kings, all that had cost Charles his
life and crown, appeared as dust in the balance. For what was Ship-money,
a general burthen, by the side of the present decimation of a single
class, whose offence had long been expiated by a composition and effaced
by an act of indemnity? or were the excessive punishments of the Star
Chamber so odious as the capital executions inflicted without trial by
peers, whenever it suited the usurper to erect his high court of justice
[by which Gerard and Vowel in 1654, Slingsby and Dr. Hewit in 1658 fell]?
A sense of present evils not only excited a burning desire to live again
under the ancient monarchy, but obliterated, especially in the new
generation, that had no distinct remembrance of them, the apprehension of
its former abuses.” (_Constitutional Hist. England_, cap. x. vol. ii. p.
252, edit. 1872.) This from a writer unprejudiced and discriminating.

Pages 131, 376. _I’ll tell you a story._

TOWER HILL AND TYBURN. The date of this ferocious ballad is not likely to
have been long before the execution of the regicides Harrison, Hacker,
Cook, and Hew Peters, in October, 1660; some on the 13th, others on the
16th. Probably, shortly before the trial of Harry Marten, on the 10th
of the same month. The second verse indicates a considerable lapse of
time since Monk’s arrival and the downfall of the Rump (burnt in effigy,
Febr. 11, 1659-60); so we may be certain that it was written late, about
September, if not actually at beginning of October.

Sir Robert TICHBOURNE, Commissioner for sale of State-lands, Alderman,
Regulator of Customs, and Lord Mayor in 1658, was named in the King’s
Proclamation, 6th June, 1660, as one of those who had fled, and who were
summoned to appear within fourteen days, on penalty of being exempted
from any pardon. His name occurs again, among the exceptions to the
Act of Indemnity; along with those of Thos. Harrison, Hy. Marten, John
Hewson, Jn. Cook, Hew Peters, Francis Hacker, and other forty-five.
Nineteen of these fifty-one surrendered themselves: Tichbourne and Marten
among them. None of them were executed; although Scoop was, who also had
yielded. The trial of the regicides commenced on 9th October, at Hick’s
Hall, Clerkenwell.

HUGH PETERS suffered, along with JOHN COOK (the Counsel against Charles
I.) “that read the King’s charge,” on the 16th October. He was depressed
in spirits at the last, but there was dignity in his reply to one who
insulted him in passing—“Friend, you do not well to trample on a dying
man;” and his sending a token to his daughter awakens pity. Physically
he had failed in courage, and no wonder, to face all that was arrayed
to terrify him: or he might have justified anticipations and “made a
pulpit of the place.” His last sermon at Newgate is said to have been

HARRY MARTEN’S private life is so generally declared to have been
licentious (dozens of ballads referring to his “harem,” “Marten’s girl
that was neither sweet nor sound,” “Marten, back and leave your wench,”
&c.), and his old friend Cromwell when become a foe openly taxing him as
a “whoremaster,” that it is better for us to think of him with reference
to his unswerving faithfulness in Republican opinions; his gay spirit
(more resembling the reckless indifference of Cavaliers than his own
associates can have esteemed befitting); his successful exertions on
many occasions to save the shedding of blood; and his gallant bearing in
the final hours of trial. The living death to which he was condemned,
of his twenty years imprisonment at Chepstow Castle, has been recorded
(mistakenly as _thirty_) by that devoted student Robert Southey, _clarum
et venerabilem nomen!_ in a poem which can never pass into oblivion,
although cleverly mocked by Canning in the Anti-Jacobin, Nov. 20, 1797:—

  For twenty years secluded from mankind
  Here MARTEN lingered. Often have these walls
  Echo’d his footsteps, as with even tread
  He paced around his prison; not to him
  Did Nature’s fair varieties exist:
  He never saw the sun’s delightful beams
  Save when through yon high bars it pour’d a sad
  And broken splendour. Dost thou ask his crime?
  He had rebelled against his King, and sat
  In judgment on him: _&c._

John Forster has written his memoir, and, in one of his best moments,
Wallis painted him. Here are his own last words, sad yet firm, the old
humour still apparent, if only in the choice of verse, it being the
anagram of his name:—

  Here, or elsewhere (all’s one to you—to me!)
      Earth, air, or water, gripes my ghostless dust,
  None knowing when brave fire shall set it free.
      Reader, if you an oft-tried rule will trust,
      You’ll gladly do and suffer what you must.

  My life was worn with serving you and you,
  And death is my reward, and welcome too:
  Revenge destroying but itself. While I
  To birds of prey leave my old cage and fly.
  Examples preach to th’ eye—care, then, mine says,
  Not how you end, but how you spend your days.

                                  (_Athenæ Oxonienses_, iii. 1243.)

As to Thomas HARRISON, fifth-monarchy enthusiast, firm to the end in
his adversity, he who had been ruthless in prosperity, we have already
briefly referred to his closing hours in our Introduction to _Merry
Drollery, Compleat_, p. xxix.

JOHN HEWSON, Cobbler and Colonel, who had sat in the illegal mockery
of Judgment on King Charles, was for the after years ridiculed by
ballad-singers as a one-eyed spoiler of good leather. He escaped the doom
of Tyburn by flight to Amsterdam, where he died in 1662. In default of
his person, his picture was hung on a gibbet in Cheapside, 25th January,
1660-61. (See _Pepys’ Diary_ of that date.) His appearance was not
undignified. One ballad specially devoted to him, at his flight, is “A
Hymne to the Gentle Craft; or, _Hewson’s_ Lamentation”:—

  Listen a while to what I shall say
  Of a blind cobbler that’s gone astray
  Out of the Parliament’s High-way,
          Good people, pity the blind!

                                                        [verse 17.]

  And now he has gone to the Lord knows whether,
  He and this winter go together,
  If he be caught he will lose his leather,
          Good people, pity the blind!

                             (_Rump_, Coll. 1662 edit., ii. 151-4.)

Verse 14. Dr. John HEWIT with Sir Harry Slingsby had been executed for
conspiracy against Cromwell, 8th June, 1658. The Earl of Strafford’s
death was May 12th, 1641; and that of Laud, January 10th, 1644.

Verse 15. DUN was the name of the Hangman at this time, frequently
mentioned in the _Rump_ ballads. Jack Ketch was his successor: Gregory
had been Hangman in 1652.

Pages 134, 376. _I’ll go no more to the Old Exchange._

The _first_ Royal Exchange, Sir Thomas Gresham’s Bourse, was opened by
Queen Elizabeth, January 23rd, 1570, and destroyed in the Great Fire of
1666. The _second_ was commenced on May 6th, 1667, and burnt on January
10th, 1838. The present building, the _third_, was opened by Queen
Victoria Oct., 28th, 1844. The “Old Exchange,” often referred to in
ballads, was Gresham’s. But the “New Exchange” was one, erected where
the stables of Durham House in the Strand had stood: opened April 11th,
1609, and removed in 1737. King James I. had named it “Britain’s Bourse.”
Built on the model of the established Royal Exchange, it had “cellars,
a walk, and a row of shops, filled with milliners, seamstresses, and
those of similar occupations; and was a place of fashionable resort.
What, however, was intended to rival the Royal Exchange, dwindled into
frivolity and ruin, and the site is at present [1829] occupied by a range
of handsome houses facing the Strand” (T. Allen’s _Hist. and Antiq. of
London_, iv. 254). In the ballad it is sung of as “Haberdashers’ Hall.”
Cp. Roxb. Coll., ii., 230.

Pages 152, 378. _There is a certain, &c._

This is an imperfect version of “A Woman’s Birth,” merely the beginning,
four stanzas. The whole fifteen (eleven following ours) are reprinted by
Wm. Chappell, in the Ballad Society’s _Roxburghe Bds._, iii. 94, 1875,
from a broadside in Roxb. Coll., i. 466, originally printed for Francis
Grove [1620-55]. 2nd verse reads:—Her husband _Hymen_; 4th. _Wandring
~eye~; insatiate_. The gifts of Juno, Flora, and Diana follow; with
woman’s employment of them.

Page 172. _Blind Fortune, if thou, &c._

We find this in MS. Harleian, No. 6396, fol. 13. Also two printed copies,
in _Parnassus Biceps_, 1656, 124; and in _Sportive Wit_, same year, p.
39. We gained the corrections, which we inserted as _marginalia_, from
the MS.; “_Ceres_ in _hir_ Garland” having been corrupted into “_Cealus_
in _his_.” “_Aglaura_,” Sir John Suckling’s play, (printed originally in
4to. 1639, with a broad margin of blank, on which the wits made merry
with epigrammes, “By this wide margent,” &c.), appeared on April 18th,
1638, and is here referred to. Probably the date of the poem is nearly as
early. On p. 175 the “Pilgrimage up _Holborn_ Hill” refers to a journey
from Newgate to Tyburn. (See p. 365).

Pages 180, 379. _Heard you not lately of a man._

The Mad-Man’s Morrice; written by HUMFREY CROUCH: For the second part
of the broad-sheet version we must refer readers to vol. ii. page 153,
of the Ballad Society’s reprint of the _Roxburghe Ballads_ (now happily
arrived at completion of the first massive folio vol. of Major Pearson’s
original pair; the bulky third and slim fourth vols. being afterwards
added). We promised to give it, and gladly would have done so, if we had
space: for it is a trustworthy picture of a Bedlamite’s sufferings, under
the harsh treatment of former days. Date about 1635-42.

To our enumeration of mad songs (_Westm. Droll._ App. p. 9) we may add
Thomas Jordan’s “I am the woefullest madman.”

_M. D., C._, p. 198, lines 22, 23. _True Hearts._

“I’ll drink to thee a brace of quarts || Whose Anagram is called _True
Hearts_.” The Anagram of True Hearts gives us “Stuart here!” which, like
drinking “to the King—_over the water_!” in later days by the Jacobites,
would be well understood by suspected cavaliers.

In March 1659-60 appeared the anagram “Charles Stuart: Arts Chast Rule.”
Later: Awld fool, Rob the Jews’ Shop.

Pages 255, 287. _When I do travel in the night._

Like “How happy’s the prisoner,” _Ibid._ p. 107, we trace this so early
as 1656. It is in _Sportive Wit_, p. 12, as “When I go to revel in the
night,” The Drunkard’s Song.

Pages 153 (and Introduction, ix). _The best of Poets, &c._

THE BOW GOOSE. We have found this, (15 verses of our 18,) five years
earlier, in _Sportive Wit_, 1656, p. 35. It there begins, “The best of
Poets write of Hogs, And of _Ulysses_ barking Dogs; Others of Sparrows,
Flies, and Hogs.” Our text, though later, seems to be the better, and
has three more verses: “Frogs,” in connection with “the Best of Poets,”
referring to Homer and to _Batrachomyomachia_; supposed to be his, and
translated by George Chapman, about 1623 (of whom A. C. Swinburne has
recently written so glowing a eulogium, coupling with it the noblest
praise of Marlowe).

_M. D., C._, pp. 166, 376. _Now, thanks to, &c._

Of course, the words displayed by dashes are _Crown_, _Bishop_, _King_.
To this same tune are later songs (1659-60) in the Rump, ii. 193-200,
“What a reprobate crew is here,” &c. Wilkins prints an inferior version
of 7th line in 3rd verse, as “Take _Prynne_ and his clubs, or _Say_ and
his tubs,” referring to William, Viscount “Say and Seal.” Ours reads
“club, or _Smec_ and his tub,” the allusion being to _Smectymnuus_, a
name compounded, like the word _Cabal_ in Charles II.’s time, of the
initials of five personal names: Ste. Marshall, Edm. Calamy, Thos. Young,
Matth. Newcomen, and Willm. Spurstow; all preachers, who united in a
book against Episcopacy and the Liturgy. Milton, in 1641 published his
_Animadversions upon the Remonstrants Defence against Smectymnuus_; and
in 1642, _An Apology for Smectymnuus_. John Cleveland devotes a poem to
“The Club Divines,” beginning “Smectymnuus! the Goblin makes me start.”
(_Poems_, p. 38, 1661; also in the _Rump_ Coll., i. 57.)

Pages 200, 382. _A Story strange, &c._

Correction:—Instead of the words “_Choyce Drollery_, p. 31,” in first
line of note (M. D., C., p. 382), read “_Jovial Drollery_ (i.e.,
_Sportive Wit_), p. 59.” The same date, viz. 1656.

Pages 210-11, 384. “_To ~Virginia~ for Planters._”

The reference here is to the proposed expedition of disheartened
Cavaliers (among whom was Wm. D’Avenant) from France and England to the
Virginian plantations. It was defeated in 1650, the vessels having been
intercepted in the channel by the Commonwealth’s fleet. By the way, the
infamous sale into slavery of the royalist prisoners during the war
in previous years by the intolerant Parliament, deserves the sternest

Page 226. “_Sea-coal Lane._”

An appropriate dower, as Sea-coal Lane in the Old Bailey bore a similar
evil repute to Turnball Street, Drury Lane, and Kent Street, for the
_bona-roba_ tribe: as “the suburbs” always did.

Pages 232, 390. _How poor is his spirit._

Written when Oliver rejected the title of King, 8th May, 1657. (See next
note, on p. 254.)

Pages 254, 393. Oliver, Oliver, _take up thy Crown_.

After Cromwell’s designating the Battle of Worcester, 3rd September,
1651, his “crowning victory” many of his more uncompromising Republicans
kept a stealthy eye upon him. Our ballad evidently refers itself to the
date of the “purified” Parliament’s “Petition and Advice,” March 26,
1656, when Cromwell hesitated before accepting or declining the offered
title of King; thinking (mistakenly, as we deem probable) that his
position would become more unsafe, from the jealousy and prejudices of
the army, than if he seemed contented with the name of Protector to the
Commonwealth, while holding the actual power of sovereignty. His refusal
was in April, 1657. Hallam thinks it was not until after Worcester fight
that “he began to fix his thoughts, if not on the dignity of royalty,
yet on an equivalent right of command. Two remarkable conversations, in
which Whitelock bore a part, seem to place beyond controversy the nature
of his designs. About the end of 1651, Whitelock himself, St. John,
Widdrington, Lenthall, Harrison, Desborough, Fleetwood, and Whalley met
Cromwell, at his own request to consider the settlement of the nation,”
&c. (_Constit. Hist. England_, cap. x. p. 237, edit. 1872.) “Twelve
months after this time in a more confidential discourse with Whitelock
alone, the general took occasion to complain both of the chief officers
of the army and of the parliament,” &c. (_Ibid._ p. 238). The conference
not being satisfactory to Cromwell, on each occasion ended abruptly; and
Whitelock (if we may trust his own account, which perhaps is asking too
much) was little consulted afterwards. When they had conferred the title
of Lord Protector, the right of appointing his successor was added on
22nd May.

Pages 255, 393. _When I do travel, &c._

“With upsie freeze I line my head,” of our text, is in the play
“Cromwell’s Coronation” printed “With _tipsy_ frenzie.” But we often
find the other phrase; sometimes, as in the ballad of “The Good Fellow’s
Best Beloved” (i.e. strong drink) varied thus, “With good _ipse he_,”
(about 1633). See Bd. Soc. _Roxb. Bds._ iii. 248, where is W. Chappell’s
note, quoting Nares:—“It has been said that _op-zee_, in Dutch, means
‘over sea,’ which cones near to another English phrase for drunkenness,
being ‘half-seas over.’ But _op-zyn-fries_ means, ‘in the Dutch fashion,’
or _à la mode de Frise_, which perhaps is the best interpretation of
the phrase.” In Massinger and Decker’s “Virgin Martyr,” 1622, Act ii.
sc. 1, we find the vile Spungius saying, “_Bacchus_, the God of brewed
wine and sugar, grand patron of rob-pots, _upsie freesie_ tipplers, and
_super-naculum_ takers,” &c. Probably Badham’s conjecture is right, and
in Hamlet, i. 4, we should read not “up-spring,” but

  “_Keeps wassail, and the swaggering ~upsy freeze~._”

(_Cambr. Essays_, 1656; _Cambr. Shakesp._ viii. 30). T. Caldecott had
so early as 1620 (in _Spec. new edit. Shakesp._ Hamlet) anticipated
the guess, but not boldly. He brings forward from T. Lodge’s _Wit’s
Miserie_, 4to, 1596, p. 20, “Dance, leap, sing, drink, _upsefrize_.” And

  _For ~Upsefreeze~ he drunke from four to nine,_
  _So as each sense was steeped well in wine:_
  _Yet still he kept his ~rouse~, till he in fine_
  _Grew extreame sicke with hugging ~Bacchus~ shrine._

  [_The Shrift._]

A new Spring shadowed in sundrie pithie Poems by _Musophilus_, 4to.
1619, signat. l. b., where “_Upsefreese_” is the name of the frier. Like
“Wassael” and “Trinkael,” the phrase upsie-friese, or vrijster, seems to
have been used as a toast, perhaps for “To your sweetheart.”

Pages 259, 354. _If none be offended._

The exact date of this ballad’s publication was 31st December, 1659: in
_Thomason Collection_, Numero xxii., folio, Brit. Mus.

Page 270. _Pray why should any, &c._

Probably written in 1659-60, when Monk was bridling the Commons. “Cooks”
alludes to John Cook, the Solicitor for the Commonwealth, who at the
trial of Charles Ist. exhibited the charge of high treason. After the
Restoration, Cook was executed along with Hugh Peters, 16th Oct., 1660,
at Charing Cross.

Pages 283 (line 22), 395. _I have the finest Nonperel._

“_Hyrens_” (as earlier printed in _Wit and Drollery_, 1656, p. 26),
instead of “Syrens” of our text, is probably correct. Ancient Pistol
twice asks “Have we not _Hirens_ here?” (_Henry_ IV., Part 2nd, Act ii.
sc. 4). George Peele had a play, now lost, on “The Turkish Mahomet and
Hiren the fair Greek” [1594?] In the _Spiritual Navigator_, 1615, we
learn, is a passage, “There be Syrens in the sea of the world. _Syrens?_
_Hirens_, as they are now called. What a number of these syrens, hirens,
cockatrices, courteghians—in plain English, harlots—swimme amongst us!”

Page 287. Title, “_Oxford Feasts._”

An unfortunate misprint crept in, detected too late: for “_Feasts_” read
properly “_Jeasts_:” the old fashioned initial _J_ being barred across
like _F_.

Page 293, line 11. “_Heresie in hops._”

This must have been an established jest. Compare Introd. to _M. D., C._,
pp. xxxi-ii. and T. Randolph’s “Fall of the Mitre Tavern,” Cambridge,
before 1635,

        “_The zealous students of that place_
        _Change of religion bear:_
  _That this mischance may soon bring in_ || _A heresy of beer._”

Page 295, line 24. “_A hundred horse._”

“He that gave the King a hundred horse,” refers, no doubt, to Sir John
Suckling and his loyal service in 1642. See introduction to _M. D.,
C._, pp. xix. xx. The Answer to “I tell thee, Jack, thou gavest the
King,” there mentioned, and probably referring to Sir John Mennis, a
carping rival although a Cavalier, has a smack of Cleveland about it (it
certainly is not Suckling’s):—

  _I tell thee, fool, who ere thou be,_
  _That made this fine sing-song of me,_
        _Thou art a riming sot:_
  _These very lines do thee betray,_
  _This barren wit makes all men say_
        _’Twas some rebellious Scot._

  _But it’s no wonder if you sing_
  _Such songs of me, who am no King,_
        _When every blew-cap swears_
  _Hee’l not obey King ~James~ his Barn,_
  _That huggs a Bishop under’s Arme,_
        _And hangs them in his ears._

  _Had I been of your Covenant,_
  _You’d call me th’ son of ~John~ of ~Gaunt~,_
        _And give me t’ great renown;_
  _But now I am ~John~ [f]or the King,_
  _You say I am but poor ~Suckling~,_
        _And thus you cry me down._

  _Well, it’s no matter what you say_
  _Of me or mine that run away:_
        _I hold it no good fashion_
  _A Loyal subjects blood to spill,_
  _When we have knaves enough to kill_
        _By force of Proclamation._

  _Commend me unto ~Lesley~ stout,_
  _And his Pedlers him about,_
        _Tell them without remorse_ [p. 151.]
  _That I will plunder all their packs_
  _Which they have got with their stoln knick knacks,_
        _With these my hundred horse._

  _This holy War, this zealous firke_
  _Against the Bishops and the Kirk_
        _Is a pretended bravery;_
  _Religion, all the world can tell,_
  _Amongst Highlanders nere did dwell,_
        _Its but to cloak your knavery._

  _Such desperate Gamesters as you be,_
  _I cannot blame for tutoring me,_
        _Since all you have is down,_
  _And every Boor forsakes his Plow,_
  _And swears that he’l turn Gamester now_
        _To venture for a Crown._

                         (_Le Prince d’Amour_, 1660, pp. 150, 151.)

Pages 296, 398 (Cp. this vol. p. 149, line 8). _Now that the Spring._

This is by WILLM. BROWNE, author of “Britannia’s Pastorals.” The date
is probably about fifteen years before 1645. It is one among the “Odes,
Songs, and Sonnets of Wm. Browne,” in the Lansdowne MS. 777, fol. 4
_reverso_ and 5, with extra verses not used in the Catch.

  _A Rounde._ [1st verse sung by] All.

  _Now that the Spring hath fill’d our veynes_
    _With kinde and actiue fire,_
  _And made green Liu’ryes for the playnes,_
    _and euery grove a Quire,_
  _Sing we a Song of merry glee_
    _and ~Bacchus~ fill the bowle:_
  _1. Then heres to thee; 2. And thou to mee_
    _and euery thirsty soule._

  _Nor Care nor Sorrow ere pay’d debt_
    _nor never shall doe myne;_
  _I haue no Cradle goeing yet,_
    _[?2.] nor I, by this good wyne._
  _No wyfe at home to send for me,_
    _noe hoggs are in my grounde,_
  _Noe suit at Law to pay a fee,_
    _Then round, old Jockey, round._


  _Sheare sheepe that haue them, cry we still,_
    _But see that noe man scape_
      _To drink of the Sherry_
      _That makes us so merry_
  _and plumpe as the lusty Grape._

                                        (_Lansdowne MS._, No. 777.)

“Noe hoggs are in my grounds” may refer to the Catch (if it be equally

  _Whose three Hogs are these, and whose three Hoggs are these,_
  _They are ~John Cook’s~, I know by their look, for I found them in my
  _Oh! pound them: oh pound them! But I dare not, for my life;_
  _For if I should pound ~John Cook’s~ Hoggs, I should never kiss ~John
      Cook’s~ wife, &c._

                                     (_Catch Club_, 1705, iii. 46.)

Pages 293, 358. _Fetch me ~Ben Jonson’s~ scull._

In 1641 this was printed separately and anonymously as “_A Preparative
to Studie; or, the Vertue of Sack_,” 4to. Ben Jonson had died in August,
1637. Line 9 reads: dull _Hynde_; 21, Genius-making; 28, Welcome, by;
after the word “scapes” these additional lines:—

  _I would not leave thee, Sack, to be with ~Jove~,_
  _His Nectar is but faign’d, but I doe prove_
  _Thy more essentiall worth; I am (methinks), &c._

Line 46, instead of “long since,” reads “_of late_” (referring to whom?);
38, tempt a _Saint_; 44, _farther_ bliss; 53, against thy _foes_ (N.B.);
That _would_; and, additional, after “horse,” in line 56, this historical
allusion to David Lesley, of the Scotch rebellion:—

  _I’me in the North already, ~Lasley’s~ dead,_
  _He that would rise, carry the King his head,_
  _And tell him (if he aske, who kill’d the Scot)_
  _I knock’t his Braines out with a pottle pot._
  _Out ye Rebellious vipers; I’me come back_
  _From them againe, because there’s no good Sack,_
  _T’other odd cup, &c._

By this we are guided to the true date: between May, 1639, and August,

Pages 309, 399. _Why should we boast._

Compare pp. 129, 315, of present volume, for the _Antidote_ version
and note upon it. Brief references must suffice for annotation here.
See Mallory’s “_Morte d’Arthur_,” the French _Lancelot du Lac_, and
_Sir Tristram_. Three MSS., the Auchinlech, Cambridge University, and
Caius College, preserve the romance of _Sir Bevis of Hamptoun_, with
his slaying the wild boar; his sword _Morglay_ is often mentioned, like
Arthur’s _Excalibur_: Ascapard, the thirty-feet-long giant, who after a
fierce battle becomes page to Sir Bevis. Caius Coll. MS. and others have
the story _Richard Cœur de Leon_, but the street-ballad served equally to
keep alive his fame among the populace, _Coll. Old. Bds._ iii. 17. Wm.
Ellis gives abstracts of romances on Arthur, Guy of Warwick, Sir Bevis,
Richard Lion-heart, Sir Eglamour of Artoys, Sir Isumbras, the Seven
Wise Masters, Charlemagne and Roland, &c., in his _Spec. Early English
Metrical Romances_; of which J. O. Halliwell writes, in 1848:—“Ellis did
for ancient romance what Percy had previously accomplished for early
poetry.” In passing, we must not neglect to express the debt of gratitude
due to the managers of the _E. E. Text Soc._, for giving scholarly and
trustworthy prints of so many MSS., hitherto almost beyond reach. For
_Orlando Inamorato_ and _Orlando Furioso_ we must go to Boiardo and
Ariosto, or the translators, Sir John Harrington and W. Stewart Rose.
Dunlop’s _Hist. of Fiction_ gives a slight notice of some of this
ballad’s heroes, including _Huon_ of Bordeaux, the French _Livre de
Jason_, Prince of the Myrmidons, the _Vie de Hercule_, the _Cléopâtre_,
&c. Valentine and Orson is said to have been written in the reign of
Charles VIII., and first printed at Lyons in 1495. SS. David, James, and
Patrick, with the rest of the Seven Champions, like the Four Sons of
Aymon, are of easy access. Cp. Warton.


(_Merry Droll., Com._, pp. 312, 395; _Antidote ag. Mel._, 16).

Here is the five years’ earlier Song of “Arthur o’ Bradley,” (_vide
ante_, pp. 166-175) never before reprinted, we believe, and not mentioned
by J. P. Collier, W. Chappell, &c., when they referred to “Saw ye not
Pierce the Piper” of _Antidote_ and _M. D., C._, 1661. But ours is the
earliest-known complete version [before 1642?]:—

A SONG. [p. 81.]

    All you that desire to merry be,
  Come listen unto me,
  And a story I shall tell,
  Which of a Wedding befell,
  Between _Arthur_ of _Bradley_
  And _Winifred_ of _Madly_.
  As _Arthur_ upon a day
  Met _Winifred_ on the way,
  He took her by the hand,
  Desiring her to stand,
  Saying I must to thee recite
  A matter of [great] weight,
  Of Love, that conquers Kings,
  In grieved hearts so rings,
  And if thou dost love thy Mother,
  Love him that can love no other.
      _Which is oh brave ~Arthur~_, &c.

    For in the month of May,
  Maidens they will say,
  A May-pole we must have, [∴ date before 1642.]
  Your helping hand we crave.
  And when it is set in the earth,
  The maids bring Sullybubs forth; [Syllabubs]
  Not one will touch a sup,
  Till I begin a cup.
  For I am the end of all
  Of them, both great and small.
  Then tell me yea, or nay,
  For I can no longer stay.
      _With oh brave ~Arthur~_, &c.

    Why truly _Arthur_[,] quoth she,
  If you so minded be,
  My good will I grant to you,
  Or anything I can do.
  One thing I will compell,
  So ask my mothers good will.
  Then from thee I never will flye,
  Unto the day I do dye.
  Then homeward they went with speed,
  Where the mother they met indeed.
  Well met fair Dame, quoth _Arthur_,
  To move you I am come hither,
  For I am come to crave, [p. 83.]
  Your daughter for to have,
  For I mean to make her my wife,
  And to live with her all my life.
      _With oh brave ~Arthur~_, &c.

    The old woman shreek’d and cry’d,
  And took her daughter aside,
  How now daughter, quoth she,
  Are you so forward indeed,
  As for to marry he,
  Without consent of me?
  Thou never saw’st thirteen year,
  Nor art not able I fear,
  To take any over-sight,
  To rule a mans house aright:
  Why truly mother, quoth she,
  You are mistaken in me;
  If time do not decrease,
  I am fifteen yeares at least.
      _With oh brave ~Arthur~_, &c.

    Then _Arthur_ to them did walk,
  And broke them of their talk.
  I tell you Dame, quoth he,
  I can have as good as thee;
  For when death my father did call,
  He then did leave me all
  His barrels and his brooms,
  And a dozen of wo[o]den spoones,
  Dishes six or seven,
  Besides an old spade, even
  A brasse pot and whimble,
  A pack-needle and thimble,
  A pudding prick and reele,
  And my mothers own sitting wheele;
  And also there fell to my lot
  A goodly mustard pot.
      _With O brave_ Arthur, &c.

    The old woman made a reply,
  With courteous modesty,
  If needs it must so be,
  To the match I will agree.
  For [when] death doth me call,
  I then will leave her all;
  For I have an earthen flaggon,
  Besides a three-quart noggin,
  With spickets and fossets five,
  Besides an old bee-hive;
  A wooden ladle and maile,
  And a goodly old clouting paile;
  Of a chaff bed I am well sped,
  And there the Bride shall be wed,
  And every night shall wear
  A bolster stufft with haire,
  A blanket for the Bride,
  And a winding sheet beside,
  And hemp, if he will it break, [p. 85.]
  New curtaines for to make.
  To make all [well] too, I have
  Stories gay and brave.
  Of all the world so fine,
  With oh brave eyes of mine,
      _With oh brave ~Arthur~_, &c.

    When _Arthur_ his wench obtained,
  And all his suits had gained,
  A joyfull man was he,
  As any that you could see.
  Then homeward he went with speed,
  Till he met with her indeed.
  Two neighbours then did take
  To bid guests for his sake;
  For dishes and all such ware,
  You need not take any care.
      _With oh brave ~Arthur~_, &c.

    To the Church they went apace,
  And wisht they might have grace,
  After the Parson to say,
  And not stumble by the way;
  For that was all their doubt,
  That either of them should be out.
  And when that they were wed,
  And each of them well sped,
  The Bridegroom home he ran,
  And after him his man, [p. 86.]
  And after him the Bride,
  Full joyfull at the tyde,
  As she was plac’d betwixt
  Two yeomen of the Guests,
  And he was neat and fine,
  For he thought him at that time
  Sufficient in every thing,
  To wait upon a King.
  But at the doore he did not miss
  To give her a smacking kiss.
      _With oh brave ~Arthur~_, &c.

    To dinner they quickly gat,
  The Bride betwixt them sat,
  The Cook to the Dresser did call,
  The young men then run all,
  And thought great dignity
  To carry up Furmety.
  Then came leaping _Lewis_,
  And he call’d hard for Brewis;
  Stay, quoth _Davy Rudding_,
  Thou go’st too fast with th’ pudding.
  Then came _Sampson Seal_,
  And he carry’d Mutton and Veal;
  The old woman scolds full fast,
  To the Cook she makes great hast,
  And him she did controul,
  And swore that the Porridge was cold.
      _With oh brave_, &c.

    My Masters a while be brief,
  Who taketh up the Beef?
  Then came _William Dickins_, [p. 87.]
  And carries the Snipes & Chickens.
  _Bartholomew_ brought up the Mustard,
  _Caster_ he carry’d the Custard.
  In comes _Roger Boore_,
  He carry’d up Rabbets before:
  Quoth _Roger_, I’le give thee a Cake,
  If thou wilt carry the Drake.
  [1] Speak not more nor less,
  Nor of the greatest mess,
  Nor how the Bride did carve,
  Nor how the Groom did serve
      _With oh brave ~Arthur~_, &c.

    But when that they had din’d,
  Then every man had wine;
  The maids they stood aloof,
  While the young men made a proof.
  Who had the nimblest heele,
  Or who could dance so well,
  Till _Hob_ of the hill fell over, [? oe’r]
  And over him three or four.
  Up he got at last,
  And forward about he past;
  At _Rowland_ he kicks and grins,
  And he [? hit] _William_ ore the shins;
  He takes not any offence,
  But fleeres upon his wench.
  The Piper he play’d [a] Fadding,
  And they ran all a gadding.
      _With oh brave ~Arthur [o’ Bradley]~_, &c.

                              (“_Wits Merriment_,” 1656, pp. 81-7.)

The often mentioned “Arthur o’ Bradley’s Wedding,” a modern version
attributed to Mr. Taylor, the actor and singer, is given, not only in
_Songs and Ballads of the Peasantry_, &c., (p. 139 of R. Bell’s Annot.
ed.), collected by J. H. Dixon; but also in Berger’s _Red, White, and
Blue Monster Songbook_, p. 394, where the music arranged by S. Hale is
stated to be “at Walker’s.”

Pages 326, 402. _Why should we not laugh?_

The reference to “Goldsmith’s Hall” (see p. 363), where a Roundhead
Committee sate in 1647, and later, for the spoliation of Royalists’
estates, levying of fines and acceptance of “Compounders” money, dates
the song.

Pages 328, 402. _Now we are met._

If we are to reckon the “twelve years together by the ears” from January
4, 1641-2, the abortive attempt of Charles I. to arrest at the House “the
Five Members” (Pym, Hampden, Haslerig, Denzil Holles, and Strode), we
may guess the date of this ballad to be 1653-4. Verse 14 mentions Oliver
breaking the Long Parliament (20th April, 1653); and verses 15, 16 refer
to the Little, or “Barebones Parliament” July 4, to 2nd December, 1653,
(when power was resigned into the hands of Cromwell). Shortly after this,
but certainly before Sept. 3rd, 1654 (when the next Parliament, more
impracticable and persecuting, met), must be the true date of the ballad.
“_Robin_ the Fool” is “Robin Wisdom,” Robert Andrews. “_Fair_” is Thomas
Lord Fairfax the “Croysado-General.” “Cowardly W——” is probably Philip,
Lord Wharton, a Puritan, and Derby-House committee-man; of inferior
renown to Atkins in unsavoury matters; but whose own regiment ran away
at Edgehill: Wharton then took refuge in a saw-pit. President _Bradshaw_
died 22nd Nov., 1659. Dr. Isaac DORISLAUS, Professor of History at
Cambridge, and of Gresham College, apostatized from Charles I., and was
sent as agent by the Commons to the Hague, where he was in June, 1649,
assassinated by some cavaliers, falsely reported to be commissioned by
the gallant Montrose (see the ballad “What though lamented, curst,” &c.,
in King’s Pamphlets, Brit. Mus.).

“_Askew_,” is “one Ascham a Scholar, who had been concerned in drawing
up the King’s Tryal, and had written a book,” &c., (Clarendon, iii. 369,
1720). This Anthony Ascham, sent as Envoy to Spain from the Parliament in
1649, was slain at Madrid by some Irish officers, (Rapin:) of whom only
one, a Protestant, was executed. See _Harl. Misc._ vi. 236-47. All which
helped to cause the war with Spain in 1656.

Harry Marten’s evil repute as to women, and lawyer Oliver St. John’s
building his house with stones plundered from Peterborough Cathedral,
were common topics. “The women’s war,” often referred to as the “bodkin
and thimble army,” of 1647, was so called because the “Silly women,”
influenced by those who “crept into their houses,” gave up their rings,
silver bodkins, spoons and thimbles for support of Parliamentary troops.

Page 332, line 2.

We should for _Our_ read _Only_.

Page 348, line 10. “Old Lilly.”

An allusion to William Lilly’s predictive almanacks, shewing that this
Catch was not much earlier in date than Hilton’s book, 1652. Lilly was
the original of Butler’s “Cunning man, hight Sidrophel” in _Hudibras_,
Part 2nd, Canto 3. Compare note, p. 353.

Page 361 (Appendix), line 5.

For misprint _alterem_, read _alteram_.

Page 394 (Appendix), _New England, &c._

References should be added to the _Rump_ Coll., 1662, i. 95, and _Loyal
Songs_, 1731, i. 92. “Isaack,” is probably Isaac Pennington. Hampden and
others were meditating this _journey to New England_, until stopped, most
injudiciously, by an order in Council, dated April 6, 1638.

We here give our additional Note, on the “Sessions of the Poets,”
reserved from p. 376.


We believe that Sir John Suckling’s Poem, sometimes called “A Sessions
of Wit,” was written in 1636-7; almost certainly before the death of
Ben Jonson (6th August, 1637). Among its predecessors were Richard
Barnfield’s “Remembrance of some English Poets,” 1598 (given in present
volume, p. 273); and Michael Drayton’s “Censure of the Poets,” being
a Letter in couplets, addressed to his friend Henry Reynolds; and the
striking lines, “On the Time-Poets,” pp. 5-7 of _Choyce Drollery_, 1656.
The latter we have seen to be anonymous; but they were not impossibly by
that very Henry Reynolds, friend of Drayton; although of this authorship
no evidence has yet arisen. Of George Daniel’s unprinted “Vindication of
Poesie,” 1636-47, we have given specimens on pp. 272, 280-1, and 331-2.
Later than Suckling (who died in 1642), another author gave in print
“The Great Assizes Holden in Parnassus by Apollo and his Assessors:”
at which Sessions are arraigned Mercurius Britannicus, &c., Feb. 11th,
1644-5. This has been attributed to George Wither; most erroneously, as
we believe. The mis-appropriation has arisen, probably, from the fact of
Wither’s name being earliest on the roll of Jurymen summoned:

  “_Hee, who was called first in all the List,_
  _~George Withers~ hight, entitled Satyrist;_
  _Then ~Cary~, ~May~, and ~Davenant~ were called forth,_
  _Renowned Poets all, and men of worth,_
  _If wit may passe for worth: Then ~Sylvester~,_
  _~Sands~, ~Drayton~, ~Beaumont~, ~Fletcher~, ~Massinger~,_
  _~Shakespeare~, and ~Heywood~, Poets good and free,_
  _Dramatick writers all, but the first three:_
  _These were empanell’d all, and being sworne_
  _A just and perfect verdict to return_,” _&c._ (p. 9.)

George Wither was quite capable of placing himself first on the list, in
such a manner, we admit; but it is incredible to us that, if he had been
the author, he could have described himself so insultingly as we find in
the following lines, and elsewhere:—

                  “_he did protest_
  _That ~Wither~ was a cruell Satyrist;_
  _And guilty of the same offence and crime,_
  _Whereof he was accused at this time:_
  _Therefore for him hee thought it fitter farre,_
  _To stand as a Delinquent at the barre,_
  _Then to bee now empanell’d in a Jury._
  _~George Withers~ then, with a Poetick fury,_
  _Began to bluster, but ~Apollo’s~ frowne_
  _Made him forbeare, and lay his choler downe._”

                                                   (_Ibid_, p. 11.)

Two much more sparkling and interesting “Sessions of Poets” afterwards
appeared, to the tune of Ben Jonson’s “Cook Laurel.” The first of these

  “_~Apollo~, concern’d to see the Transgressions_
    _Our paltry Poets do daily commit,_
  _Gave orders once more to summon a Sessions,_
    _Severely to punish th’ Abuses of Wit._

  _~Will d’Avenant~ would fain have been Steward o’ the Court,_
    _To have fin’d and amerc’d each man at his will;_
  _But ~Apollo~, it seems, had heard a Report,_
    _That his choice of new Plays did show h’ had no skill._

  _Besides, some Criticks had ow’d him a spite,_
    _And a little before had made the God fret,_
  _By letting him know the Laureat did write_
    _That damnable Farce, ‘~The House to be Let~.’_

  _Intelligence was brought, the Court being set_
    _That a Play Tripartite was very near made;_
  _Where malicious ~Matt. Clifford~, and spirituall ~Spratt~,_
    _Were join’d with their Duke, a Peer of the Trade,” &c._

The author did not avow himself. It must have been written, we hold,
in 1664-5. The second is variously attributed to John Wilmot, Earl of
Rochester, and to George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, being printed in
the works of both. It begins:—

  “_Since the Sons of the Muses grew num’rous and loud,_
  _For th’ appeasing so factious and clam’rous a crowd,_
  _~Apollo~ thought fit in so weighty a cause,_
  _T’ establish a government, leader, and laws,” &c._

Assembled near Parnassus, Dryden, Etherege, Wycherley, Shadwell, Nat
Lee, Settle, Otway, Crowne, Mrs. Aphra Behn, Rawlins, Tom D’Urfey, and
Betterton, are in the other verses sketched with point and vivacity; but
in malicious satire. It was probably written in 1677. Clever as are these
two later “Sessions,” they do not equal Suckling’s, in genial spirit and
unforced cheerfulness.

We need not here linger over the whimsical Trial of Tom D’Urfey and
Tom Brown (who squabbled between themselves, by the bye), in a still
later “Sessions of the Poets Holden at the foot of Parnassus Hill,
July the 9th, 1696: London, printed for E. Whitlock, near Stationers’
Hall, 1696”:—a mirthful squib, which does not lay claim to be called
poetry. Nor need we do more than mention “A Trip to _Parnassus_; or, the
Judgment of _Apollo_ on Dramatic Authors and Performers. A Poem. London,
1788”—which deals with the two George Colmans, Macklin, Macnally, Lewis,
&c. Coming to our own century, it is enough to particularize Leigh Hunt’s
“Feast of the Poets;” printed in his “Reflector,” December, 1811, and
afterwards much altered, generally with improvement (especially in the
exclusion of the spiteful attack on Walter Scott). It begins—_“’Tother
day as Apollo sat pitching his darts,” &c._ In 1837 Leigh Hunt wrote
another such versical review, viz., “Blue-Stocking Revels; or, The Feast
of the Violets.” This was on the numerous “poetesses,” but it cannot
be deemed successful. Far superior to it is the clever and interesting
“Fable for Critics,” since written by James Russell Lowell in America.

Both as regards its own merit, and as being the parent of many others
(none of which has surpassed, or even equalled it), Sir John Suckling’s
“Sessions of Poets” must always remain famous. We have not space
remaining at command to annotate it with the fulness it deserves.


The type-ornaments in _Choyce Drollery_ reprint are merely substitutes
for the ruder originals, and are not in _fac-simile_, as were the Initial
Letters on pages 5 and 7 of our _Merry Drollery, Compleat_ reprint.

Page 42, line 6, “a Lockeram Band:” Lockram, a cheap sort of linen, see
J. O. Halliwell’s valuable _Dictionary of Archaic and Provincial Words_,
p. 525, edit. 1874. To this, and to the same author’s 1876 edition of
Archdeacon _Nares Glossary_, we refer readers for other words.

Page 73-77, 297, _Marchpine_, or _Marchpane_, biscuits often made
in fantastic figures of birds or flowers, of sweetened almonds, &c.
_Scettuall_, or _Setiwall_, the Garden Valerian. _Bausons_, i.e. badgers.
_Cockers_; boots. Verse fifth omitted from _Choyce Drollery_, runs:—

  “Her features all as fresh above,
  As is the grass that grows by _Dove_,
    And lythe as lass of _Kent_;
  Her skin as soft as _Lemster_ wool,
  As white as snow on _Peakish Hull_,
    Or Swan that swims in _Trent_.”

A few typographical errors crept into sheet G (owing to an accident
in the Editor’s final collation with original). P. 81, line 2, read
_Blacke_; line 20, Shaft; p. 85, line 3, Unlesse; p. 86, line 5,
Physitian; line 17, that Lawyer’s; p. 87, line 9, That wil stick to
the Laws; p. 88, line 8, O that’s a companion; p. 90, first line,
_basenesse_; line 23, nature; p. 91, line 13, add a comma after the word
blot; p. 94, line 13, Scepter; p. 96, line 10, Of this; p. 97, line 15,
For feare; p. 99, line 6, add a comma; p. 100, line 13, finde. These are
all _single-letter_ misprints.

Page 269, line 14, for _encreasing_, read _encreaseth_; and end line 28
with a comma.

I. H. in line 35, are the initials of the author, “Iohn Higins.”

Page 270, line 9, add the words—“It is by Sir Wm. Davenant, and entitled
‘The Dying Lover.’”

Page 275, penultimate line, read _Poet-Beadle_. P. 277, l. 17, for 1698
read 1598.

Page 281, line 20, for _liveth_, read _lives_; _claime_.

Page 289, after line 35, add—“Page 45, ‘_As I went to_ Totnam.’ This is
given with the music, in Tom D’Urfey’s _Pills to purge Melancholy_, p.
180, of 1700 and 1719 (vol. iv.) editions; beginning ‘As I came from
_Tottingham_.’ The tune is named ‘Abroad as I was walking.’ Page 52, _He
that a Tinker_; Music by Dr. Jn. Wilson.”

Page 330, after line 10, add—“_Fly, boy, fly_: Music by Simon Ives, in
Playford’s _Select Ayres_, 1659, p. 90.”

The date of “The Zealous Puritan,” _M. D. C._, p. 95, was 1639. “He that
intends,” &c., _Ibid._, p. 342, is the _Vituperium Uxoris_, by John
Cleveland, written before 1658 (_Poems_, 1661, p. 169).

“Love should take no wrong,” in _Westminster-Drollery_, 1671, i. 90,
dates back seventy years, to 1601: with music by Robert Jones, in his
Second Book of Songs, Song 5.

Introduction to Merry Drollery (our second volume) p. xxii. lines 20,
21. Since writing the above, we have had the pleasure of reading the
excellent “Memoir of Barbara, Duchess of Cleveland,” and the “Althorp
Memoirs,” by G. Steinman Steinman, Esq., F. S. A., (printed for Private
Circulation, 1871, 1869); by the former work, p. 22, we are led to
discredit Mrs. Jameson’s assertion that the night of May 29, 1660, was
spent by Charles II. in the house of Sir Samuel Morland at Vauxhall.
“This knight and friend of the King’s _may_ have had a residence in
the parish of Lambeth before the Restoration, but as he was an Under
Secretary of State at the time, it is more probable that he lived in
London; and _as he did not obtain from the Crown a lease of Vauxhall
mansion and grounds until April 19, 1675_, the foundations of a very
improbable story, whoever originated it, are considerably shaken.” Mr.
Steinman inclines to believe the real place of meeting was Whitehall. He
has given a list of Charles II.’s male companions in the Court at Bruges,
with short biographies, in the _Archæologia_, xxxv. pp. 335-349. We knew
not of this list when writing our Introduction to _Choyce Drollery_.

[Illustration: The Phœnix (emblematical of the Restoration) is adapted
from Spenser’s Works, 1611.]


In “Merry Drollery,” 1661, 1670, 1691

(_Now first added._)

[The Songs and Poems _peculiar to the first edition_, 1661 (having been
afterwards omitted), are here distinguished by being printed in Roman
type. They are all contained _in the present volume_. Those that were
added, in the later editions only, have no number attached to them in
our first column of pages, viz. for 1661. The third edition, in 1691,
was no more than a re-issue of the 1670 edition, with a fresh title-page
to disguise it, in pretence of novelty (see p. 345, _ante_). The outside
column refers to our Reprint of the “Drolleries;” but where the middle
column is blank, as shewing the song was not repeated in 1670 and 1691,
our Reprint-page belongs to the _present volume_. The “Reserved Pieces,”
given only in Supplement, bear the letter “R” (for the extra sheet,
signed R*).—ED.]

  FIRST LINES.                         [In Editions]  1661    1670    1875

  _A Brewer may be a Burgess_                     ii.   70     252     252

  _A fig for Care, why should we_                              217     217

  _A Fox, a Fox, up gallants_                           29      38      38

  _A Maiden of late, whose name_                       160     170     170

  _A Pox on the Jaylor, and on his_                            289     289

  A Puritan of late                                      2             195

  _A Session was held the other day_                    68      72      72

  _A Story strange I will you tell_               ii.   12     200     200

  A young man of late                                   27             201

  _A young man that’s in love_                          34      42      42

  A young man walking all alone                         32             204

  _After so many sad mishaps_                          112     118     118

  _After the pains of a desperate Lover_                       171     171

  _Ah, ah, come see what’s_                             30      40      40

  _All in the Land of ~Essex~_                          48      56      56

  _Am I mad, O noble ~Festus~?_                   ii.   50     234     234

  _~Amarillis~ told her swain_                                   8      10

  Among the Purifidian sect                       ii.  103             243

  _Are you grown so melancholy?_                  ii.  101     286     286

  _Aske me no more why there appears_                   62      70      70

  _~Bacchus~ I am, come from_                           61      69      69

  _Be merry in sorrow_                                 1^b       6       8

  _Be not thou so foolish nice_                         61      69      69

  _Blind Fortune, if thou want’st_                     163     172     172

  _Bring forth your Cunny-skins_                  ii.    8     196     196

  _But since it was lately enacted_               ii.   24     212     212

  _Call for the Master, oh, this_                                9      11

  _Call ~George~ again, boy_                      ii.  118     304     304

  _Calm was the evening, and clear_                            220     220

  _Calm was the evening, and clear_                            292     292

  _Cast your caps and cares aside_                      87      92      92

  _Come, Drawer, and fill us about_               ii.   80     263     263

  Come, Drawer, some wine                         ii.   29             237

  _Come, Drawer, turn about the b._               ii.   86     268     268

  _Come, Drawer, come, fill us_                   ii.    3     190     190

  _Come, faith, let’s frolick_                    ii.   65     246     246

  Come, hither, my own sweet                      ii.  106             247

  _Come, Imp Royal, come away_                    ii.   45     231     231

  _Come, ~Jack~, let’s drink a pot of Ale_              45      52      52

  _Come, let us drink, the time invites_                93      97      97

  _Come, let’s purge our brains_                       114     121     121

  _Come, my dainty Doxies, my Dove_               ii.   44     230     230

  _Come, my ~Daphne~, come away_                        86      91      91

  _Come, my delicate, bonny sweet_                      23      34      34

  _Cook ~Laurel~ would needs have_                ii.   26     214      14

  Discoveries of late have been                   ii.   33             R^f

  _Doctors, lay by your irkesome_                       41      48      48

  Fair Lady, for your New Year’s                  ii.   81             R^n

  _Fetch me ~Ben Johnson’s~ scull_                             293     293

  From _Essex_ Anabaptist Laws                    ii.   38             241

  _From hunger and cold, who lives_               ii.    9     197     197

  _From ~Mahomet~ and Paganisme_                       164     174     174

  _From the fair ~Lavinian~ shore_                             291     291

  _From what you call’t Town_                          191     182     182

  Full forty times over I have, &c.               ii.   61             R^i

  _Gather your rosebuds while_                    ii.   11     199     199

  _Go, you tame Gallants_                         ii.   57     242     242

  _God bless my good Lord Bishop_                      166     176     176

  _Good Lord, what a pass is this_                      75      79      79

  _Had she not care enough_                                    211     211

  _Hang Chastity! it is_                                88             220

  _Have you observed the Wench_                   ii.  141     332     332

  He is a fond Lover, that doateth                ii.   62             R^l

  _He that a happy life would lead_               ii.  147     339     339

  _He that intends to take a wife_                ii.  153     342     342

  _Heard you not lately of a man_                      169     180     180

  _Here’s a health unto his Majesty_                           212     212

  Hey, ho, have at all!                                168             R^e

  _Hold, quaff no more_                           ii.   19     210     210

  _How happy is the Prisoner_                          101     107     107

  _How poor is his spirit_                        ii.   48     232     232

  _I am a bonny ~Scot~, Sir_                           119     127     127

  _I am a Rogue, and a stout one_                 ii.   16     204     204

  _I came unto a Puritan to woo_                        73      77      77

  _I doat, I doat, but am a sot_                  ii.   53     237     237

  I dreamt my Love lay in her bed                       11             197

  _I have reason to fly thee_                     ii.   97     281     281

  _I have the fairest Non-perel_                  ii.   99     283     283

  I loved a maid—she loved not me                 ii.  151             R^p

  _I marvel, ~Dick~, that having been_                  46      54      54

  I mean to speak of _England’s_                        85             218

  _I met with the Divel in the shape_                  103     109     109

  _I pray thee, Drunkard, get thee_               ii.  119     306     306

  _I tell thee, ~Kit~, where I have been_                      317     317

  I went from _England_ into _France_                   64             213

  If any one do want a House                      ii.   64             R^m

  _If any so wise is, that Sack_                  ii.  157     348     348

  _If every woman were served in her_                   80      85      85

  _If none be offended with the scent_            ii.   77     259     259

  If that you will hear of a ditty                ii.  149             253

  _If thou wilt know how to chuse_                      21      32      32

  If you will give ear                            ii.   46             R^g

  _I’ll go no more to the Old Exchange_                126     134     134

  _I’ll sing you a sonnet, that ne’er_                          66      66

  _I’ll tell thee, ~Dick~, where I have_                97     101     101

  _I’ll tell you a story, that never w. t._            123     131     131

  _In Eighty-eight, e’er I was born_                    77      82      82

  _In the merry month of ~May~_                                 99      99

  _It chanced not long ago, as I was_             ii.   82     264     264

  It was a man, and a jolly old man                     95             222

  _Ladies, I do here present you_                 ii.   55     240     240

  _Lay by your pleading, Law_                          118     125     125

  _Lay by your pleading, Love lies a_             ii.    4     191     191

  _Let dogs and divels die_                             31      41      41

  _Let Souldiers fight for praise_                ii.   31     218     218

  _Let the Trumpet sound_                         ii.  142     333     333

  _Let’s call, and drink the cellar dry_               130     138     138

  Listen, lordings, to my story                   ii.   32             240

  Mine own sweet honey bird                            153             R^c

  _My bretheren all attend_                             91      95      95

  _My Lodging is on the cold ground_                           290     290

  _My Masters, give audience_                     ii.   91     275     275

  _My Mistris is a shittle-cock_                        51      60      60

  _My Mistris is in Musick_                            154     163     163

  _My Mistris, whom in heart_                          107     113     113

  _Nay, out upon this fooling_                          79      84      84

  _Nay, prithee, don’t fly me_                          25      36      36

  _Ne’er trouble thy self at the times_                        219     219

  _Nick Culpepper_ and _William Lilly_                  56             190

  _No man Love’s fiery passion_                   ii.    1     187     187

  _No sooner were the doubtful people_            ii.   58     243     243

  _Now, gentlemen, if you will hear_                    18      29      29

  _Now I am married, Sir ~John~_                  ii.   96     280     280

  _Now, I confess, I am in love_                         1       5       7

  Now _Lambert’s_ sunk, and gallant                     12             198

  _Now thanks to the Powers below_                     156     166     166

  _Now that the Spring has filled_                ii.  110     296     296

  _Now we are met in a knot_                      ii.  138     328     328

  O that I could by any Chymick                   ii.   31             239

  _O the wily, wily Fox_                          ii.  114     300     300

  _Of all the Crafts that I do know_                     7      17      17

  _Of all the rare juices_                                     178     178

  _Of all the Recreations, which_                              146     146

  _Of all the Sciences beneath the Sun_           ii.  129     319     319

  _Of all the Sports the world doth_              ii.  111     296     296

  _Of all the Trades that ever I see_             ii.   40     225     225

  _Of an old Souldier of the Queen’s_                   20      31      31

  _~Oliver~, ~Oliver~, take up thy Crown_         ii.   72     254     254

  _Once was I sad, till I grew to be_                  2^b      10      12

  _Pox take you, Mistris, I’ll be gone_           ii.  118     304     304

  _Pray, why should any man_                      ii.   87     270     270

  Riding to _London_, in _Dunstable_                    14             200

  _Room for a Gamester_                           ii.   10     197     197

  _Room for the best Poets heroick!_                    96     100     100

  _Saw you not ~Pierce~ the piper_                ii.  124     312     312

  _She lay all naked in her bed_                  ii.  115     300     300

  She lay up to the navel bare                    ii.  116             R^o

  _She that will eat her breakfast_               ii.  120     308     308

  _Shew a room, shew a room_                      ii.  145     337     337

  _Sir ~Eglamore~, that valiant knight_           ii.   75     257     257

  _Some Christian people all give ear_                  81      87      87

  _Some wives are good, and some_                              302     302

  _Stay, shut the gate!_                          ii.   18     207     207

  _Sublimest discretions have club’d_                          287     287

  _The Aphorisms of ~Galen~_                      ii.   94     277     277

  _The best of Poets write of F._                      141     153     153

  _The Hunt is up, the Hunt is up_                      20      30      30

  _The Proctors are two, and no more_                  105     111     111

  _The Spring is coming on_                             40      47      47

  _The thirsty Earth drinks up_                                 22      22

  _The ~Turk~ in linnen wraps_                          13      25      25

  _The Wise Men were but seven_                                232     232

  _The World’s a bubble, and the life_                 104     110     110

  _There dwelt a Maid in the C. g._                     37      46      46

  _There is a certain idle kind of cr._                140     152     152

  _There was a jovial Tinker_                           17      27      27

  There was a Lady in this land                        134             223

  _There was an old man had an acre_                    44      52      52

  There was three birds that built                     139             R^a

  _There was three Cooks in C_                    ii.  129     318     318

  _There’s a lusty liquor which_                       132     140     140

  _There’s many a blinking verse_                 ii.   35     221     221

  _Three merry Boys came out_                                  220     220

  _Three merry Lads met at the Rose_                           143     143

  _’Tis not the Silver nor Gold_                       109     115     115

  _To friend and to foe_                                38      23      23

  _Tobacco that is wither’d quite_                      16      26      26

  _~Tom~ and ~Will~ were Shepherd_                             149     149

  Upon a certain time                                          146     R^b

  Upon a Summer’s day                                  148             230

  _Wake all you Dead, what ho!_                                151     151

  _Walking abroad in the m._                            76      81      81

  _We Seamen are the honest boys_                      152     162     162

  _What an Ass is he, Waits, &c._                 ii.   90     273     273

  _What Fortune had I, poor Maid_                 ii.  152     341     341

  _What is that you call a Maid._                 ii.   68     249     249

  _What though the ill times do run_                   116     124     124

  What though the times produce                        161             R^d

  _When blind god ~Cupid~, all in an_             ii.    2     188     188

  _When first ~Mardike~ was made_                        4      12      12

  _When first the ~Scottish~war_                        89      93      93

  _When I a Lady do intend to flatter_            ii.  158     348     348

  _When I do travel in the night_                 ii.   73     255     255

  _When I’se came first to ~London~_              ii.  133     323     323

  _When ~Phœbus~ had drest_                       ii.   69     250     250

  _When the chill ~Charokoe~ blows_                    155     164     164

  _White bears have lately come_                       149     159     159

  _Why should a man care_                         ii.  146     337     337

  _Why should we boast of_ Arthur                 ii.  122     309     309

  _Why should we not laugh_                       ii.  136     326     326

  _Will you hear a strange thing_                       53      62      62

  You Gods, that rule upon                        ii.   21             233

  _You talk of ~New England~_                     ii.   84     266     266

  You that in love do mean to sport               ii.   22             235

First Lines of the “Antidote” Songs:


                                                   [Present Reprint,] Page

  _A Man of ~Wales~, a little before ~Easter~_                         157

  _An old house end_                                                   153

  _Bring out the [c]old Chyne_                                         146

  _Come, come away to the Tavern, I say_                               150

  _Come hither, thou merriest of all the Nine_                         133

  _Come, let us cast dice who shall drink_                             151

  _Drink, drink, all you that think_                                   158

  _Fly boy, fly boy, to the cellar’s bottom_                           157

  _Good ~Symon~, how comes it_                                         154

  _Hang Sorrow, and cast away Care_                                    152

  _Hang the ~Presbyter’s~ Gill_                                        144

  _He that a Tinker, a tinker will be_                                  52

  _In love? away! you do me wrong_                                     147

  _I’s not come here to tauke of ~Prut~_                               141

  _Jog on, jog on the foot-path-way_                                   156

  _Let’s cast away Care_                                               152

  _Mongst all the pleasant juices_                                     150

  _My Lady and her Maid_                                               152

  _Never let a man take heavily_                                       151

  _Not drunken nor sober_                                              113

  _Of all the birds that ever I see_                                   155

  _Old Poets ~Hypocrin~ admire_                                        143

  _Once I a curious eye did fix_                                       139

  _The parcht earth drinks the rain_                                   157

  _The wit hath long beholden been_                                    135

  _There was an old man at ~Walton~ Cross_                             151

  _This Ale, my bonny lads_                                            155

  _’Tis Wine that inspires_                                            145

  _Welcome, welcome, again to thy wit_                                 159

  _What are we met? Come, let’s see_                                   156

  _Why should we boast of ~Arthur~_                                    129

  _Wilt thou be fat? I’ll tell thee how_                               154

  _Wilt thou lend me thy mare_                                         153

  _With an old song made by an old a. p._                              125

  _You merry Poets, old boyes_                                         149

  _Your mare is lame, she halts outright_                              153

Here the Editor closes his willing toil, (after having added a _Table
of First Lines_, and a _Finale_,) and offers a completed work to the
friendly acceptance of Readers. They are no vague abstractions to him,
but a crowd of well-distinguished faces, many among them being renowned
scholars and genial critics. To approach them at all might be deemed
temerity, were it not that such men are the least to be feared by an
honest worker. On the other hand, it were easy for ill-natured persons
to insinuate accusations against any one who meddles with Re-prints of
_Facetiæ_. Blots and stains are upon such old books, which he has made no
attempt to disguise or palliate. Let them bear their own blame. There are
dullards and bigots in the world, nevertheless, who decry all antiquarian
and historical research. A defence is unnecessary: “Let them rave!”

  _Fama di loro il mondo esser non lassa,_
    _Misericordia e giustizia gli sdegna,_
  _Non ragioniam di lor, ma guarda e passa._

He thanks those who heartily welcomed the earlier Volumes, and trusts
that no unworthy successor is to be found in the present Conclusion,
which holds many rare verses. Hereafter may ensue another meeting. Our
olden Dramatists and Poets open their cellars, full of such vintage as
Dan Phœbus had warmed. Leaving these “_Drolleries of the Restoration_”
behind him, as a Nest-Egg, the Editor bids his Readers cheerfully



_“Laudator temporis acti” cantat_:—


  Closed now the book, untrimmed the lamp,
    Flung wide the lattice-shutter;
  The night-breeze strikes in, chill and damp,
    The fir-trees moan and mutter:
  Lo, dawn is near! pale Student, thou
    No count of time hast reckon’d;
  Go, seek a rest for weary brow
    From dreams of Charles the Second.


  Sad grows the world: those hours are past
    When, jovially convivial,
  Choice Spirits met, and round them cast
    Such glow as made cares trivial;
  When nights prolonged through following days
    Found night still closing o’er us,
  While Youth and Age exchanged their lays,
    Or intertwined in chorus.


  Our gravest Pundits of the Bench,
    Most reverend Sirs of Pulpit,
  Smiled at the praise of some coy wench,
    Or—if too warm—could gulp it.
  Loyal to King, faithful to Church,
    And firm to Constitution,
  No friend, no foe they left in lurch,
    Or sneaked to Revolution.


  There, many a sage Physician told
    Fresh facts of healing knowledge;
  There, the dazed Bookworm could grow bold,
    And speak of pranks at College:
  There, weary Pamphleteers forgot
    Faction, debates, and readers,
  But helped to drain the clinking-pot
    With punning Special-pleaders.


  How oft some warrior, famed abroad
    For valour in campaigning,
  Exchanged the thrust with foes he awed
    For hob-a-nob Champaigning!
  While some Old Salt, an Admiral
    And Circumnavigator,
  Joined in the revel at our call,
    Nor sheer’d-off three days later.


  Who lives to thrill with jest and song,
    Like those whose memories haunt us?—
  Who never knew a night too long,
    Or head-ache that could daunt us.
  The weaklings of a later day
    Win neither Mirth nor Thinking;
  They mix, and spoil, both work and play:
    They’ve lost the art of Drinking!


  For me, I lonely grow, and shy,
    No one seems worth my courting;
  Though girls have still a laughing eye,
    And tempt to May-day sporting:
  For sillier youth, or richer Lord,
    Or some staid prig, and colder,
  “Neat-handed Phillis” spreads the board,
    And Chloe bares her shoulder.


  In days gone by, light grew the task,
    For holidays were glorious;
  It was the _talk_ sublimed the flask,
    That now is deemed uproarious.
  We’ve so much Methodistic cant,
    Abstainers’ Total drivel,
  And, worse, Utilitarian rant—
    One scarcely can keep civil.


  Our politics are insincere,
    For Statesmen cog and shuffle;
  They hit not from the shoulder clear,
    But dodge, and spar with muffle.
  How Bench and Bar sink steeped in mire,
    Avails not here recording:
  While Prelates cannot now look higher
    Than to mere self-rewarding.


  Friends of old days, ’tis well you died
    Before, like me, you sickened
  Amid the rottenness and pride
    That in this world have quickened:
  You passed, ere yet your hopes grew dim,
    While Love and Friendship warmed you:
  I look but to th’ horizon’s rim,
    For all that erst had charmed you.


  Not here, amid a lower crew,
    I seek to fill your places;
  For men no more have hearts as true,
    Nor maids,—though fair their faces.
  My thoughts flit back to earlier days,
    Where Pleasure’s finger beckon’d,
  Cheered with the Beauty, Love, and Lays
    That warmed our Charles the Second.

                                                           J. W. E.

_Biblioth. Ashmol., Cantium_, 1876.

[End of “The ‘Drolleries’ of the Restoration.”]

Drollery Reprints.

_Uniform with “Choice Drollery.”_

Published at 10s. 6d. to Subscribers, _now raised_ to 21s; large paper,
published at £1 1s, _now raised_ to £2 2s.



Westminster Drollery,

1671, 1672.

To those who are already acquainted with the two parts of the
_Westminster Drollery_, published in 1671 and 1672, it must have appeared
strange that no attempt has hitherto been made to bring these delightful
volumes within reach of the students of our early literature. The
originals are of extreme rarity, a perfect copy seldom being attainable
at any public sale, and then fetching a price that makes a book-hunter
almost despair of its acquisition. So great a favourite was it in the
Cavalier times, that most copies have been literally worn to pieces in
the hands of its many admirers, as they chanted forth a merry stave
from the pages. _There is no collection of songs surpassing it in the
language_, and as representative of the lyrics of the first twelve years
after the Restoration it is unequalled: by far the greater number are
elsewhere unattainable.

The WESTMINSTER DROLLERIES are reprinted with the utmost fidelity, page
for page, and line for line, not a word being altered, or a single letter
departing from the original spelling.



“_Merry Drollery, Complete_,”

1661, 1691.

MERRY DROLLERY, COMPLETE is not only amusing, but as an historical
document is of great value. It is here reproduced, with the utmost
exactitude, for students of our old literature, from the edition of
1691. The few rectifications of a corrupt text are invariably held
within square brackets, when not reserved for the Appendix of Notes,
Illustrations, and Emendations. Thirty-four Songs, additional, that
appeared only in the 1661 edition, will be given separately; the
intermediate edition of 1670 being also collated. A special Introduction
has been prefixed, drawing attention to the political events of the time
referred to, and some account of the authors of the Songs in this _Merry

The work is quite distinct in character from the _Westminster
Drolleries_, 1671-72, but forms an indispensable companion to that
ten-years-later volume. Twenty-five songs and poems, that had not
appeared in the 1661 edition, were added to the after editions of
_Merry Drollery_; but without important change to the book. It was
essentially an offspring of the Restoration, the year 1660-61, and it
thus gives us a genuine record of the Cavaliers in their festivity.
Whatever is offensive, therefore, is still of historical importance.
Even the bitterness of sarcasm against the Rump Parliament, under whose
rule so many families had long groaned; the personal invective, and
unsparing ridicule of leading Republicans and Puritans; were such as not
unnaturally had found favour during the recent Civil War and Usurpation.
The preponderance of Songs in praise of Sack and loose revelry is not
without significance. A few pieces of coarse humour, _double entendre_,
and breaches of decorum attest the fact that already among the Cavaliers
were spread immorality and licentiousness. The fault of an impaired
discipline had home evil fruit, beyond defeat in the field and exile from
positions of power. Mockery and impurity had been welcomed as allies,
during the warfare against bigotry, hypocrisy, and selfish ambition.
We find, it is true, few of the sweeter graces of poetry in _Choice
Drollery_ and in _Merry Drollery_; but, instead, much that helps us to
a sounder understanding of the social, military, and political life of
those disturbed times immediately preceding the Restoration.

Of the more than two hundred pieces, contained in _Merry Drollery_,
fully a third are elsewhere unattainable, and the rest are scarce. Among
the numerous attractions we may mention the rare Song of “Love lies a
bleeding” (p. 191), an earnest protest against the evils of the day; the
revelations of intolerant military violence, such as The Power of the
Sword (125), Mardyke (12), Pym’s Anarchy (70), The Scotch War (93), The
New Medley of the Country-man, Citizen, and Soldier (182), The Rebel
Red-Coat (190), and “Cromwell’s Coronation” (254), with the masterly
description of Oliver’s Routing the Rump (62). Several Anti-Puritan Songs
about New England are here, and provincial descriptions of London (95,
275, 323). Rollicking staves meet us, as from the Vagabond (204), The
Tinker of Turvey (27), The Jovial Loyallist, with the Answer to it, in a
nobler strain, by one who sees the ruinous vileness of debauchery (pp.
207, 209); and a multitude of Bacchanalian Catches. The two songs on
the Blacksmith (225, 319), and both of those on The Brewer (221, 252),
referring to Cromwell, are here; as well as the ferocious exultation over
the Regicides in a dialogue betwixt Tower-hill and Tyburn (131). More
than a few of the spirited Mad-songs were favourites. Nor are absent
such ditties as tell of gallantry, though few are of refined affection
and exalted heroism. The absurd impossibilities of a Medicine for the
Quartan Ague (277, cf. 170), the sly humour of the delightful “How
to woo a Zealous Lady” (77), the stately description of a Cock-fight
(242), the Praise of Chocolate (48), the Power of Money (115), and
the innocent merriment of rare Arthur o’ Bradley’s Wedding (312), are
certain to please. Added, are some of the choicest poems by Suckling,
Cartwright, Ben Jonson, Alexander Brome, Fletcher, D’Avenant, Dryden,
Bishop Corbet, and others. “The Cavalier’s Complaint,” with the Answer
to it, has true dramatic force. The character of a Mistress (60), shows
one of the seductive Dalilahs who were ever ready to betray. The lampoons
on D’Avenant’s “Gondibert” (100, 118) are memorials of unscrupulous
ridicule from malicious wits. “News, that’s No News” (159), with the
grave buffoonery of “The Bow Goose” (153), and the account of a Fire on
London Bridge (87), in the manner of pious ballad-mongers (the original
of our modern “Three Children Sliding on the Ice”), are enough to make
Heraclitus laugh. Some of the dialogues, such as “Resolved not to Part”
(113), “The Bull’s Feather” (i.e. the Horn, p. 264), and that between
a Hare and the hounds that are chasing him (296), lend variety to the
volume; which contains, moreover, some whimsical stories in verse,
(one being “A Merry Song” of a Husbandman whose wife gets him off a
bad bargain, p. 17: compare p. 200), told in a manner that would have
delighted Mat Prior in later days.

It is printed on Ribbed Toned paper, and the Impression is limited to 400
copies, fcap. 8vo. 10s. 6d.; and 50 copies large paper, demy 8vo. 21s.
Subscribers’ names should be sent at once to the Publisher,


            _Every copy is numbered and sent out in the order
                            of Subscription._

☞ This series of Re-prints from the rare _Drolleries_ is now completed
in Three Volumes (of which the first published was the _Westminster
Drollery_): that number being sufficient to afford a correct picture
of the times preceding and following the Restoration 1660, without
repetition. The third volume contains “_Choice Drollery_,” 1656, and
all of the “_Antidote against Melancholy_,” 1661, which has not been
already included in the two previous volumes; with separate Notes, and
Illustrations drawn from other contemporary Drolleries.


                                         “Strafford Lodge, Oatlands Park,
                                                    Surrey, Feb. 4, 1875.


I received the “Westminster Drolleries” yesterday evening. I have spent
nearly the whole of this day in reading it. I can but give unqualified
praise to the editor, both for his extensive knowledge and for his
admirable style. The printing and the paper do great credit to your
press.... I enclose a post-office order to pay for my copy.

                              Yours truly,

                                                           WM. CHAPPELL.”

Mr. Robert Roberts.

       *       *       *       *       *

_From J. O. Halliwell, Esqre._

                                  “No. 11, Tregunter Road, West Brompton,
                                                           London, S. W.,
                                                         25th Feby. 1875.


I am charmed with the edition of the “Westminster Drollery.” One half
of the reprints of the present day are rendered nearly useless to exact
students either by alterations or omissions, or by attempts to make
eclectic texts out of more than one edition. By all means let us have
introductions and notes, especially when as good as Mr. Ebsworth’s, but
it is essential for objects of reference that one edition only of the old
text be accurately reproduced. The book is certainly admirably edited.

                              Yours truly,

                                                        J. O. PHILLIPPS.”

To Mr. R. Roberts.

       *       *       *       *       *

_From F. J. Furnivall, Esq._

                    “3, St. George’s Square, Primrose Hill, London, N.W.,
                                                      2nd February, 1875.


I have received the handsome large paper copy of your “Westminster
Drolleries.” I am very glad to see that the book is really _edited_, and
that well, by a man so thoroughly up in the subject as Mr. Ebsworth.

                              Truly yours,

                                                                F. J. F.”

       *       *       *       *       *

_From the Editor of the “Fuller’s Worthies Library,” “Wordsworth’s Prose
Works,” &c._

                                                   “Park View, Blackburn,
                                             Lancashire, 13th July, 1875.


I got the “Westminster Drolleries” _at once_, and I will see after the
“Merry Drollery” when published.

Go on and prosper. Mr. Ebsworth is a splendid fellow, evidently.


                                                          A. B. GROSART.”

       *       *       *       *       *

J. P. COLLIER, Esqre., has also written warmly commending the work, in
private letters to the Editor, which he holds in especial honour.

       *       *       *       *       *

_From the “Academy” July 10th, 1875._

“It would be a curious though perhaps an unprofitable speculation, how
far the ‘Conservative reaction’ has been reflected in our literature....
Reprints are an important part of modern literature, and in them there is
a perceptible relaxation of severity. Their interest is no longer mainly
philological. Of late, the Restoration has been the favourite period for
revival. Its dramatists are marching down upon us from Edinburgh, and the
invasion is seconded by a royalist movement in Lincolnshire. A Boston
publisher has begun a series of drolleries—intended, not for the general
public, but for those students who can afford to pay handsomely for their
predilection for the byways of letters.

“The Introduction is delightful reading, with quaint fancies here
and there, as in the ‘imagined limbo of unfinished books.’ ... There
is truth and pathos in his excuses for the royalist versifiers who
‘snatched hastily, recklessly, at such pleasures as came within their
reach, heedless of price or consequences.’ We may not admit that they
were ‘outcasts without degradation,’ but we can hardly help allowing
that ‘there is a manhood visible in their failures, a generosity in
their profusion and unrest. They are not stainless, but they affect no
concealment of faults. Our heart goes to the losing side, even when the
loss has been in great part deserved.’ ... The fact is, that in his
contemplation of the follies and vices of ‘that very distant time’ he
loses all apprehension of their grosser elements, and retains only an
appreciation of their wit, their elegance, and their vivacity. Without
offence be it said, in Lancelot’s phrase, ‘he does something smack,
something grow to; he has a kind of taste,’—and so have we too, as we
read him. These trite and ticklish themes he touches with so charming
a liberality that his generous allowance is contagious. We feel in
thoroughly honest company, and are ready to be heartily charitable along
with him. For his is no unworthy tolerance of vice, still less any desire
to polish its hardness into such factitious brilliancy as glistens in
Grammont. It is a manly pity for human weakness, and an unwillingness
to see, much less to pry into, human depravity. ‘It would have been a
joy for us to know that these songs were wholly speck must go hungry
through many an orchard, even unobjectionable; but he who waits to eat
of fruit without past the apples of the Hesperides.’ ... The little book
is well worth the attention of any one desirous to have a bird’s-eye
view of the Restoration ‘Society.’ Its scope is far wider than its
title would indicate. The ‘Drolleries’ include not only the rollicking
rouse of the staggering blades who ‘love their humour well, boys,’ the
burlesque of the Olympian revels in ‘Hunting the Hare,’ the wild vagary
of Tom of Bedlam, and the gibes of the Benedicks of that day against the
holy estate, but lays of a delicate and airy beauty, a dirge or two of
exquisite pathos, homely ditties awaking patriotic memories of the Armada
and the Low Country wars, and ‘loyal cantons’ sung to the praise and
glory of King Charles. The ‘late and true story of a furious scold’ might
have enriched the budget of Autolycus, and Feste would have found here a
store of ‘love-songs,’ and a few ‘songs of good life.’ The collection is
of course highly miscellaneous. After the stately measure may come a jig
with homely ‘duck and nod,’ or even a dissonant strain from the ‘riot and
ill-managed merriment’ of Comus,

  ‘Midnight shout, and revelry,
  Tipsy dance, and jollity.’”

_From the “Bookseller,” March, 1875._

“If we wish to read the history of public opinion we must read the songs
of the times: and those who help us to do this confer a real favour. Mr.
Thomas Wright has done enormous service in this way by his collections of
political songs. Mr. Chappell has done better by giving us the music with
them; but much remains to be done. On examining the volume before us, we
are surprised to find so many really beautiful pieces, and so few of the
coarse and vulgar. Even the latter will compare favourably with the songs
in vogue amongst the fast men in the early part of the present century.

The “_Westminster Drolleries_” consist of two collections of poems
and songs sung at Court and theatres, the first published in 1671,
and the second in 1672. Now for the first time reprinted. The editor,
Mr. J. Woodfall Ebsworth, has prefaced the volume with an interesting
introduction ... and, in an appendix of nearly eighty pages at the end,
has collected a considerable amount of bibliographical and anecdotical
literature. Altogether, _we think this may be pronounced the best edited
of all the reprints of old literature_, which are now pretty numerous. A
word of commendation must also be given to Mr. Roberts, of Boston, the
publisher and printer—the volume is a credit to his press, and could have
been produced in its all but perfect condition only by the most careful
attention and watchful oversight.”

_From the “Athenæum,” April 10th, 1875._

“Mr. Ebsworth has, we think, made out a fair case in his Introduction
for reprinting the volume without excision. The book is not intended
_virginibus puerisque_, but to convey to grown men a sufficient idea
of the manners and ideas which pervaded all classes in society at the
time of the reaction from the Puritan domination.... Mr. Ebsworth’s
Introduction is well written. He speaks with zest of the pleasant aspects
of the Restoration period, and has some words of praise to bestow upon
the ‘Merry Monarch’ himself.... Let us add that his own “Prelude,” “Entr’
Acte,” and “Finale” are fair specimens of versification.”


[1] ELIZABETH CROMWELL.—A contemporary writes, “How many of the
Royalist prisoners got she not freed? How many did she not save
from death whom the Laws had condemned? How many persecuted
Christians hath she not snatched out of the hands of the
tormentors; quite contrary unto that [daughter of] Herodias who
could do anything with her [step] father? She imployed her Prayers
even with Tears to spare such men whose ill fortune had designed
them to suffer,” &c. (S. Carrington’s _History of the Life and
Death of His most Serene Highness OLIVER, Late Lord Protector_.
1659. p. 264.)

Elizabeth Cromwell, here contrasted with Salome, more resembled the
Celia of _As you Like It_, in that she, through prizing truth and
justice, showed loving care of those whom her father treated as

By the way, our initial-letter W. on opening page 11 (representing
Salome receiving from the Σπεκουλάτωρ, sent by Herod, the head
of S. John the Baptist)—is copied from the Address to the Reader
prefixed to Part II. of _Merry Drollery_, 1661. _Vide postea_, p.

Our initial letters in M. D., C., pp. 3, 5, are in _fac simile_ of
the original.

[2] Cromwell “seemed much afflicted at the death of his Friend
the Earl of _Warwick_; with whom he had a fast friendship, though
neither their humours, nor their natures, were like. And the Heir
of that House, who had married his youngest Daughter [Frances],
died about the same time [or, rather, two months earlier]; so that
all his relation to, or confidence in that Family was at an end;
the other branches of it abhorring his Alliance. His domestick
delights were lessened every day; he plainly discovered that his
son [in-law, who had married Mary Cromwell,] Falconbridge’s heart
was set upon an Interest destructive to his, and grew to hate him
perfectly. _But that which chiefly broke his Peace was the death
of his daughter [Elizabeth] Claypole_; who had been always his
greatest joy, and who, in her sickness, which was of a nature the
Physicians knew not how to deal with, had several Conferences
with him, which exceedingly perplexed him. Though no body was
near enough to hear the particulars, yet her often mentioning,
in the pains she endured, the blood her Father had spilt, made
people conclude, that she had presented his worst Actions to his
consideration. And though he never made the least show of remorse
for any of those Actions, it is very certain, that _either what she
said, or her death_, affected him wonderfully.” (Clarendon’s _Hist.
of the Rebellion_. Book xv., p. 647, edit. 1720.)

[3] John Cleveland wrote a satirical address to Mr. Hammond,
the Puritan preacher of Beudley, who had exerted himself “for
the Pulling down of the Maypole.” It begins, in mock praise,
“The mighty zeal which thou hast put on,” &c.; and is printed in
_Parnassus Biceps_, 1656, p. 18; and among “_J. Cleveland Revived:
Poems_,” 1662, p. 96.

[4] Here the thought is enveloped amid tender fancies. Compare the
more passionate and solemn earnestness of the loyal churchman,
Henry King, Bishop of Chichester, in his poem of _The Exequy_,
addressed “To his never-to-be-forgotten Friend,” wherein he says:—

    “Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed,
    Never to be disquieted!
    My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake,
    Till I thy fate shall overtake;
    Till age, or grief, or sickness, must
    Marry my body to that dust
    It so much loves; and fill the room
    My heart keeps empty in thy Tomb.
    _Stay for me there; I will not faile_
    _To meet thee in that hollow Vale._
    And think not much of my delay;
    I am already on the way,
    And follow thee with all the speed
    Desire can make, or sorrows breed,” &c.

[5] For special reasons, the Editor felt it nearly impossible
to avoid the omission of a few letters in one of the most
objectionable of these pieces, the twelfth in order, of _Choyce
Drollery_. He mentions this at once, because he holds to his
confirmed opinion that in Reprints of scarce and valuable
historical memorials _no tampering with the original is
permissible_. (But see Appendix, Part IV. and pp. 230, 288.) He
incurs blame from judicious antiquaries by even this small and
acknowledged violation of exactitude. Probably, he might have
given pleasure to the general public if he had omitted much more,
not thirty letters only, but entire poems or songs; as the books
deserved in punishment. But he leaves others to produce expurgated
editions, suitable for unlearned triflers. Any reader can here
erase from the Reprint what offends his individual taste (as we
know that Ann, Countess of Strafford, cut out the poem of “Woman”
from our copy of Dryden’s _Miscellany Poems_, Pt. 6, 1709). _No
Editor has any business to thus mutilate every printed copy._

[6] _H_aut _goust._

[7] Prefixed to “The Ex-Ale-tation of Ale” is given a Table of
Contents (on page 112), enlarged from the one in the original
“_Antidote against Melancholy, made up in Pills_,” 1661, by
references to such pages of “_Merry Drollery, Compleat_,” 1670,
1691, as bear songs or poems in common with the “_Antidote_.”

[8] _George Thomason._ It was in 1640 that this bookseller
commenced systematically to preserve a copy of every pamphlet,
broadside, and printed book connected with the political
disturbances. Until after the Restoration in 1660, he continued his
valuable collection, so far as possible without omission, but not
without danger and interruption. In his will he speaks of it as
“not to be paralleled,” and it was intact at Oxford when he died
in 1666. Charles II. had too many feminine claimants on his money
and time to allow him to purchase the invaluable series of printed
documents, as it had been desired that he should do. The sum of
£4,000 was refused for this collection of 30,000 pamphlets, bound
in 2,000 volumes; but, after several changes of ownership, they
were ultimately purchased by King George the Third, for only three
or four hundred pounds, and were presented by him to the nation.
They are in the British Museum, known as the King’s Pamphlets, and
the _Antidote against Melancholy_ is among the small quartos. See
Isaac D’Israeli’s _Amenities of Literature_, for an interesting
account of the difficulties and perils attending their collection:
article _Pamphlets_, pp. 685-691, edition 1868.

[9] J. P. Collier, in his invaluable “_Bibliographical and Critical
Account of the Rarest Books in the English Language_,” 1865,
acknowledges, in reference to “_An Antidote against Melancholy_,”
that “We are without information by whom this collection of Poems,
Ballads, Songs, and Catches was made; but Thomas Durfey, about
sixty years afterwards, imitated the title, when he called his six
volumes ‘_Wit and Mirth, or Pills to Purge Melancholy_,’ 8vo.,
1719-20.” (_Bibliog. & Crit. Account_, vol. i. p. 26.) Again,
“If N. D., whose initials are at the end of the rhyming address
‘to the Reader,’ were the person who made the selection, we are
without any other clue to his name. There is no ground for imputing
it to Thomas Jordan, excepting that he was accustomed to deal in
productions of this class; but the songs and ballads he printed
were usually of his own composition, and not the works of anterior
versifyers.” (_Ibid._, i. 27.)

[10] It was a week of supreme rejoicing and frollic, being five
days before the Coronation of Charles II. in Westminster Abbey,
April 23rd. On the 19th were the ceremonies of the Knights of the
Bath, at the Painted Chamber, and in the Chapel at Whitehall.
On the 22nd, Charles went from the Tower to Whitehall, through
well-built triumphal arches, and amid enthusiasm.

[11] These are the Blacksmith, the Brewer, Suckling’s Parley
between two West Countrymen concerning a Wedding, St. George and
the Dragon, the Gelding of the Devil, the Old and Young Courtier,
the Welchman’s Praise of Wales, Ben Jonson’s Cook Lorrel, “Fetch me
Ben Jonson’s scull,” a Combat of Cocks, “Am I mad, O noble Festus?”
“Old Poets Hypocrin admire,” and “’Tis Wine that inspires.” The
Catches are “Drink, drink, all you that think;” “If any so wise
is,” “What are we met?” and “The thirsty earth drinks up the rain.”

[12] _Ball at Court._—“31st. [December, 1662.] Mr. Povy and I to
White Hall; he taking me thither on purpose to carry me into the
ball this night before the King. He brought me first to the Duke
[of York]’s chamber, where I saw him and the Duchesse at supper;
and thence into the room where the ball was to be; crammed with
fine ladies, the greatest of the Court. By and by, comes the King
and Queene, the Duke and Duchesse, and all the great ones; and
after seating themselves, the King takes out the Duchesse of York;
and the Duke, the Duchesse of Buckingham; the Duke of Monmouth, my
Lady Castlemaine; and so other lords other ladies: and they danced
the Brantle [? _Braule_]. After that the King led a lady a single
Coranto; and then the rest of the lords, one after another, other
ladies: very noble it was, and great pleasure to see. Then to
country dances; the King leading the first, which he called for,
which was, says he, ‘Cuckolds all awry [a-row],’ the old dance
of England. Of the ladies that danced, the Duke of Monmouth’s
mistress, and my Lady Castlemaine, and a daughter of Sir Harry
de Vicke’s, were the best. The manner was, when the King dances,
all the ladies in the room, and the Queene herself, stand up: and
indeed he dances rarely, and much better than the Duke of York.
Having staid here as long as I thought fit, to my infinite content,
it being the greatest pleasure I could wish now to see at Court, I
went home, leaving them dancing.”—(_Diary of Samuel Pepys, Esq.,
F.R.S., Secretary to the Admiralty, &c._)

[13] [In margin, a later-inserted line reads:

    “_~Godolphin~, ~Cartwright~, ~Beaumont~, ~Montague~._”]

Transcriber’s Note

In a book of this kind, it can be hard to tell when something is a
misprint or misspelling, and for the most part this e-text errs on
the side of caution and preserves the original printing with all its
inconsistencies. Only the following probable errors have been corrected.

We do not have the _Supplement_ containing the songs the editor thought
too immodest to include.

    Page 4, duplicate word “him” removed (Oh do not censure him for

    Page 14, duplicate word “am” removed (And all shall say when I
    am dead)

    Page 40, stanza number “3.” added

    Page 46, “Aed” changed to “And” (And took her up with speed)

    Page 79, “tewelfth” changed to “twelfth” (On the twelfth day
    all in the morn)

    Page 101, “keeep” changed to “keep” (I keep my horse)

    Page 102, “Gysie” changed to “Gypsie” (No Gypsie nor no

    Page 108, “befitingly” changed to “befittingly” (befittingly in
    his notes and comments)

    Page 125, “and” changed to “an” (With an old Lady whose anger)

    Page 168, “stifly” changed to “stiffly” (dancing somewhat

    Page 189, the original page number [p. 121] has been added in
    what seems closest to the correct place.

    Pages 240 and 243, reference to “p. 213” changed to “p. 230”,
    where the matter referenced will actually be found; it is the
    paragraph starting “[A song follows, beginning”

    Page 241, “domine” changed to “Domine” in second verse (Libera
    nos Domine)

    Page 244, duplicate word “as” removed (As big as Estriges)

    Page 284, “8th.” changed to “9th.” (Verse 9th. _Gondomar_ was)

    Page 330, “encouragment” changed to “encouragement”
    (encouragement is given to gambling)

    Page 360, “Collectiom” changed to “Collection” (In Pepy’s
    Collection, vol. i.)

    Page 364, “sheephcrd” changed to “sheepherd” (A silly poor
    sheepherd was folding his sheep)

    Page 384, “fify” changed to “fifty” (Nineteen of these
    fifty-one surrendered)

    Page 384, “refering” changed to “referring” (dozens of ballads
    referring to)

    Page 387, “Viotcria” changed to “Victoria” (was opened by Queen

    Page 397, “trustworty” changed to “trustworthy” (trustworthy
    prints of so many MSS.)

Evident errors such as u for n were changed without further note.

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Choyce Drollery: Songs and Sonnets - Being A Collection of Divers Excellent Pieces of Poetry, - of Several Eminent Authors." ***

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