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
departed,—
“_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._”
EDITORIAL POSTSCRIPT: 2.—ARTHUR O’ BRADLEY.
(_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
Norfolk_.’”
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
title-pages.]
_Westminster-Drollery._
Or, A Choice
COLLECTION
of the Newest
SONGS & POEMS
BOTH AT
Court and Theaters.
BY
A Person of Quality.
_The third Edition, with many more
Additions._
LONDON,
Printed for _H. Brome_, at the _Gun_ in St. _Paul’s_
Church Yard, near the West End.
MDCLXXIV.
_ADDITIONAL SONGS_
FROM THE
WESTMINSTER-DROLLERY:
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
Possest.
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.
CHORUS.
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.]
_WICKHAM WAKENED_,
OR
_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.
_Chorus._
_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.
_Chorus._
_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.]
MERRY
DROLLERY,
OR,
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.
[1s. 3d.]
LONDON,
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
1661.]
EXTRA SONGS & POEMS,
IN
Merry Drollery, 1661:
(_Omitted from the Editions of 1670, 1691, when New Songs were
substituted for them._)
I.—IN PART FIRST.
[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._
1.
_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.
2.
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.
3.
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.
4.
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.
5.
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.
6.
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.
7.
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.
8.
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.
9.
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.
10.
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.
11.
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.
12.
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,
13.
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.
14.
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.
15.
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.
16.
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.
17.
_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.
18.
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.
20.
_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.
21.
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.
22.
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.
23.
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.
24.
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.
25.
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.
26.
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.
27.
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.
28.
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.
29.
_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.
30.
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.
31.
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.
32.
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_
Farewel.”
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:
EXTRA SONGS IN PART SECOND.
(_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.]
Appendix.
APPENDIX.
_Notes, Illustrations, Various Readings, and Emendations of Text._
(NOW FIRST ADDED.)
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
READER.
SIR,