Hath his trencher and his stoole,
When wit waits upon the foole.
O, who would not be
He, he, he?
HAD old Hippocrates, or Galen,
(That to their books put med'cines all in)
But knowne this secret, they had never
(Of which they will be guilty ever)
Beene murderers of so much paper,
Or wasted many a hurtlesse taper:
No Indian drug had ere beene famed,
Tabacco, sassafras not named;
Ne yet, of guacum one small stick, sir,
Nor Raymund Lullie's great elixir.
Ne, had been known the Danish Gonswart,
Or Paracelsus with his long sword.
You that would last long, list to my song,
Make no more coyle, but buy of this oyle.
Would you be ever faire? and yong?
Stout of teeth? and strong of tongue?
Tart of palat? quick of eare?
Sharp of sight? of nostrill cleare ?
Moist of hand? and light of foot?
(Or I will come neerer to 't)
Would you live free from all diseases?
Doe the act your mistris pleases;
Yea fright all aches from your bones?
Here's a med'cine for the nones.
BLUSH, Folly, blush: here 's none that fears
The wagging of an asse's eares,
Although a wolvish case he weares.
Detraction is but basenesse' varlet;
And apes are apes, though cloth'd in scarlet.
FOOLS, they are the only nation
Worth men's envy, or admiration;
Free from care, or sorrow-taking,
Selves, and others merry-making:
All they speak, or doe, is sterling.
Your foole he is your great man's darling,
And your ladies' sport and pleasure;
Tongue and bable are his treasure.
Eene his face begetteth laughter,
And he speaks truth free from slaughter;
He's the grace of every feast,
And sometimes the chiefest guest:
COME, my Celia, let us prove,
While we can the sports of love;
Time will not be ours for ever,
He at length our good will sever;
Spend not thou his gifts in vaine.
Sunnes that set may rise againe:
But if once we lose this light,
'T is with us perpetuall night.
Why should we deferre our joyes?
Fame and rumour are but toies.
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poore houshold-spies?
Or his easier eares beguile,
Thus removed by our wile?
"T is no sinne love's fruits to steale,
But the sweet thefts to reveale:
To be taken, to be seene,
These have crimes accounted beene.
FROM THE MASQUES AND ENTERTAINMENTS.
SEE, see, ô see who here is come a Maying!
The master of the ocean;
And his beauteous Orian:
Why left we our playing?
So is he faind by Orpheus, to have appeared first of all the gods awakened by Clotho: and is therefore called Phanes both by him and Lactantius.
2 An agreeing opinion, both with divines and philosophers, that the great artificer in love with his own idea, did therefore frame the world.
3 Alluding to his name of Himerus, and his signification in the name, which is desiderium post aspectum: and more than Eros, which is only Cupido, ex aspectu amare.
4 As in the creation he is said by the ancients to have done.
5 That is, borne since the world, and out of those duller apprehensions that did not think he was before.
Bow both your heads at once, and hearts:
Obedience doth not well in parts.
It is but standing in his eye,
You'll feele your selves chang'd by and by.
Few live that know how quick a spring
Works in the presence of a king:
T is done by this; your slough let fall,
And come forth new-borne creatures all.
[The masquers let fall their mantles, and discover their
masquing apparel-Then dance, which is proceeded
by the following:
So breakes the Sun Earth's rugged chaines,
Wherein rude Winter bound her veines;
So grows both streame and source of price,
That lately fetterd were with ice.
So naked trees get crisped heads,
And cullord coates the roughest meads,
And all get vigour, youth, and spright,
That are but look'd on by his light.
FROM THE HONOUR OF WALES.
I' is not come here to tauke of Brut,
From whence the Welse do's take his root;
Nor tell long pedegree of prince Camber,
Whose linage would fill aull this chamber;
Nor sing the deeds of old saint Davy,
The ursip of which would fill a navy.
But harke yow me now, for a liddell tales
S' all make a gread deale to the credit of Wales;
In which wee 'll toudg your eares,
With the praise of her thirteen s'eeres;
And make yow as glad and merrie
As fourteene pot of perrie.
Still, still we'll toudg your eares with the praise, &c.
'Tis true, was weare him sherkin freize, But what is that? we have store of s'eize, And Got his plenty of goat's milke That sell him well, will buy him silke = Inough to make him fine to quarrell At Hereford-sizes in new apparell;
And get him as much greene melmet perhap,
S' all give it a face to his Monmouth cap.
But then the ore of Lemster,
By got is never a sempster;
That when he is spun, ore did,
Yet match him with hir thrid
Still, still, &c.
AULL this 's the backs now, let us tell yee,
Of some provisions for the bellie:
As cid, and goat, and great goate's mother,
And runt, and cow, and good cowe's uther.
And once but taste o' the Welse mutton,
Your Englis s'eep's not worth a button.
And then for your fiss, s' all shoose it your diss,
Looke but about, and there is a trout.
A salmon, cor, or chevin,
Will feed you six or seven,
As taull man as ever swagger,
With Welse hooke, or long dagger.
Still, still, &c.
BUT aull this while was never thinke
A word in praise of our Welse drinke,
Yet for aull that, is a cup of bragat,
All England s'eere, may cast his cab-at.
And what you say to ale of Webley,
Toudge him as well, you'll praise him trebly,
As well as metheglin, or sidar, or meath,
S'all s'ake it your dagger quite out o' the seath.
And oat-cake of Guarthenion,
With a goodly leeke or onion,
To give as sweet a rellis
As ere did harper, Ellis.
Still, still, &c.
And yet, is nothing now all this,
If of our musiques we doe misse;
Both harpes and pipes too; and the crowd,
Must all come in and tauke alowd,
As lowd as Bangu, Davie's bell,
Of which is no doubt yow have here tell,
As well as our lowder Wrexham organ,
And rumbling rocks in s'eere Glamorgan;
Where looke but in the ground there,
And you s'all see a sound there,
That put him aull togedder,
Is sweet as measure pedder.
Still, still, &c.
Au, but what say yow should it shance too,
That we should leape it in a dance too,
And make it you as great a pleasure,
If but your eyes be now at leasure;
As in your eares s'all leave a laughter,
To last upon you sixe dayes after?
Ha! wella-goe too; let us try to do
As your old Britton, things to be writ on.
Come put on other lookes now,
And lay away your hookes too;
And though yet you ha' no pump, sirs,
Let 'hem heare that yow can jump, sirs.
Still, still, &c.
FROM THE MASQUE PERFORMED AT BURLEIGH,
FROM the famous peacke of Darby, And the Devill's-arse there hard-by, Where we yearely keepe our musters, Thus the Egiptians throng in clusters.
Be not frighted with our fashion, Though we seeme a tattered nation; We account our ragges, our riches, So our tricks exceed our stitches.
Give us bacon, rindes of walnuts, Shells of cockels, and of smalnuts; Ribands, bells, and safrond lynnen, All the world is ours to winne in.
Knacks we have that will delight you,
Slight of hand that will invite you,
To endure our tawny faces,
Quit your places, and not cause you cut your laces.
All your fortunes we can tell ye,
Be they for the backe or bellie;
In the moodes too, and the tenses,
That may fit your fine five senses.
Draw but then your gloves we pray you,
And sit still, we will not fray you;
For though we be here at Burley,
We'd be loth to make a hurly.
COCK-LORRELL, Would needs have the Devill his guest, And bad him once into the Peake to dinner, Where never the fiend had such a feast,
Provided him yet at the charge of a sinner.
His stomacke was queasie (for comming there coacht)
The jogging had caus'd some crudities rise; To helpe it he call'd for a puritan poacht, That used to turne up the eggs of his eyes.
And so recover'd unto his wish,
He sate him downe, and he fell to eate: Promooter in plum-broth was the first dish, His owne privie kitchin had no such meate.
Yet though with this he much was taken,
Upon a sudden he shifted his trencher,
As soone as he spi'd the bawd and bacon,
By which you may note the Devill 's a wencher.
Sixe pickl'd taylors sliced and cut,
Sempsters, tyrewomen, fit for his pallat; With feathermen and perfumers put,
Some twelve in a charger to make a grand sallet.
A rich fat usurer stu'd in his marrow,
And by him a lawyer's head and green-sawce; Both which his belly tooke in like a barrow, As if till then he had never seene sawce.
Then carbonadoed, and cookt with paines,
Was brought up a cloven serjant's face;
The sauce was made of his yeaman's braines,
That had beene beaten out with his owne mace.
Two roasted sheriffes came whole to the board,
(The feast had nothing beene without 'em)
Both living, and dead, they were foxt, and fu'rd,
Their chaines like sawsages hung about 'em.
To these, an over-growne-justice of peace, [arme;
With a clarke like a gizzard thrust under each
And warrants for sippets, layd in his owne grease,
Set o're a chaffing dish to be kept warme.
The joule of a jaylor, serv'd for fish,
A constable sous'd with vinegar by;
Two aldermen lobsters asleepe in a dish,
A deputy tart, a churchwarden pye.
All which devour'd; he then for a close,
Did for a full draught of Derby call;
He heav'd the huge vessell up to his nose,
And left not till he had drunke up all.
Then from the table he gave a start,
Where banquet and wine were nothing scarce;
All which he slirted away with a fart,
From whence it was call'd the Devil's Arse.
And there he made such a breach with the winde;
The hole too standing open the while,
That the sent of the vapour, before and behinde,
Hath fouly perfumed most part of the isle.
And this was tobacco, the learned suppose;
Which since in countrey, court, and towne, In the Devill's glister-pipe smoaks at the nose
Of pollcat, and madam, of gallant, and clowne.
From which wicked weed, with swine's flesh and ling;
Or any thing else that 's feast for the fiend:
Our captaine, and we, cry God save the king,
And send him good meate, and mirth without end.
FROM THE SHEPHERD'S HOLIDAY. XXX.
THUS, thus, begin the yearly rites
Are due to Pan on these bright nights;
His morne now riseth, and invites
To sports, to dances, and delights:
All envious, and prophane away,
This is the shepherd's holy-day.
CHO. Heare, O you groves, and hills resound his GREAT Pan, the father of our peace and pleasure,
Of Pan we sing, the best of hunters, Pan
That drives the heart to seeke unused wayes,
And in the chace more then Sylvanus can,
CHO. Heare, O you groves, and hills resound his praise.
Of Pan we sing, the best of shepherds, Pan
That keepes our flocks, and us, and both leads forth
To better pastures then great Pales can:
CHO. Heare, O you groves, and hills resound his
And while his powers and praises thus we sing, The valleys let rebound, and all the rivers ring.
Who giv'st us all this leasure,
Heare what thy hallowd troope of herdsmen pray
And how their vowes to thee, they in Lycæum pay.
So may our ewes receive the mounting rammes,
And we bring thee the earliest of our lambes:
So may the first of all our fells be thine,
And both the beestning of our goats and kine.
As thou our folds dost still secure,
And keep'st our fountaines sweet and pure
Driv'st hence the wolfe, the tode, the brock,
Or other vermine from the flock.
That we preserv'd by thee, and thou observ'd by us,
May both live safe in shade of thy lov'd Mænalus.
PAN is our all, by him we breath, we live,
We move, we are; 't is he our lambes doth reare, Our flocks doth blesse, and from the store doth give The warme and finer fleeces that we weare. He keepes away all heates and colds, Drives all diseases from our folds: Makes every where the spring to dwell, The ewes to feed, their udders swell; But if he frowne, the sheepe (alas) The shepheards wither, and the grasse. Strive, strive to please him then by still increasing
The rites are due to him, who doth all right for us.
FROM THE MASQUE OF THE FORTUNATE ISLES.
LOOKB forth the shepheard of the seas,
And of the ports that keepe the keyes,
And to your Neptune tell,
Macaria, prince of all the isles,
Wherein there nothing growes but smiles,
Doth here put in to dwell.
The windes are sweet, and gently blow,
But Zephirus, no breath they know,
The father of the flowers:
By him the virgin violets live,
And every plant doth odours give,
As new as are the howers.
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