  [p. 1.] The Ex-Ale-tation of ALE.Not drunken, nor sober, but neighbour to both, I met with a friend in Ales-bury Vale; He saw by my Face, that I was in the Case To speak no great harm of a Pot of good Ale. Then did he me greet, and said, since we meet (And he put me in mind of the name of the Dale) For Ales-burys sake some pains I would take, And not bury the praise of a Pot of good Ale. The more to procure me, then he did adjure me If the Ale I drank last were nappy and stale, To do it its right, and stir up my sprite, And fall to commend a pot [of good ale]. [passim.] Quoth I, To commend it I dare not begin, Lest therein my Credit might happen to fail; For, many men now do count it a sin, But once to look toward a pot of good ale. Yet I care not a pin, For I see no such sin, Nor any thing else my courage to quail: For, this we do find, that take it in kind, Much vertue there is in a pot of good ale. And I mean not to taste, though thereby much grac’t, Nor the Merry-go-down without pull or hale, Perfuming the throat, when the stomack’s afloat, With the Fragrant sweet scent of a pot of good ale. Nor yet the delight that comes to the Sight To see how it flowers and mantles in graile, As green as a Leeke, with a smile in the cheek, The true Orient colour of a pot of good ale. But I mean the Mind, and the good it doth find, Not onely the Body so feeble and fraile; For, Body and Soul may blesse the black bowle, Since both are beholden to a Pot of good ale. For, when heavinesse the mind doth oppresse, And sorrow and grief the heart do assaile, No remedy quicker than to take off your Liquor, And to wash away cares with a pot of good ale. The Widow that buried her Husband of late, Will soon have forgotten to weep and to waile, And think every day twain, till she marry again, If she read the contents of a pot of good ale. It is like a belly-blast to a cold heart, And warms and engenders the spirits vitale: To keep them from domage all sp’rits owe their homage To the Sp’rite of the buttery, a pot of good ale. And down to the legs the vertue doth go, And to a bad Foot-man is as good as a saile: When it fill the Veins, and makes light the Brains, No Lackey so nimble as a pot of good ale. The naked complains not for want of a coat, Nor on the cold weather will once turn his taile; All the way as he goes, he cuts the wind with his Nose, If he be but well wrapt in a pot of good ale. The hungry man takes no thought for his meat, Though his stomack would brook a ten-penny naile; He quite forgets hunger, thinks on it no longer, If he touch but the sparks of a pot of good ale. The Poor man will praise it, so hath he good cause, That all the year eats neither Partridge nor Quaile, But sets up his rest, and makes up his Feast, With a crust of brown bread, and a pot of good ale. The Shepherd, the Sower, the Thresher, the Mower, The one with his Scythe, the other with his Flaile, Take them out by the poll, on the peril of my soll, All will hold up their hands to a pot of good ale. The Black-Smith, whose bellows all Summer do blow, With the fire in his Face still, without e’re a vaile, Though his throat be full dry, he will tell you no lye, But where you may be sure of a pot of good ale. Who ever denies it, the Pris’ners will prayse it, That beg at [the] Grate, and lye in the Goale, For, even in their fetters they thinke themselves better, May they get but a two-penny black pot of Ale. The begger, whose portion is alwayes his prayers, Not having a tatter to hang on his taile, Is rich in his rags, as the churle in his bags, If he once but shakes hands with a pot of good ale. It drives his poverty clean out of mind, Forgetting his brown bread, his wallet, and maile; He walks in the house like a six footed Louse, If he once be inricht with a pot of good ale. And he that doth dig in the ditches all day, And wearies himself quite at the plough-taile, Will speak no less things than of Queens and of Kings, If he touch but the top of a pot of good ale. ’Tis like a Whetstone to a blunt wit, And makes a supply where Nature doth fail: The dullest wit soon will look quite through the Moon, If his temples be wet with a pot of good ale. Then Dick to his Dearling, full boldly dares speak, Though before (silly Fellow) his courage did quaile, He gives her the smouch, with his hand on his pouch, If he meet by the way with a pot of good ale. And it makes the Carter a Courtier straight-way; With Rhetorical termes he will tell his tale; With courtesies great store, and his Cap up before, Being school’d but a little with a pot of good ale. The Old man, whose tongue wags faster than his teeth, (For old age by Nature doth drivel and drale) Will frig and will fling, like a Dog in a string, If he warm his cold blood with a pot of good ale. And the good Old Clarke, whose sight waxeth dark, And ever he thinks the Print is to[o] small, He will see every Letter, and say Service better, If he glaze but his eyes with a pot of good ale. The cheekes and the jawes to commend it have cause; For where they were late but even wan and pale, They will get them a colour, no crimson is fuller, By the true die and tincture of a pot of good ale. Mark her Enemies, though they think themselves wise, How meager they look, with how low a waile, How their cheeks do fall, without sp’rits at all, That alien their minds from a pot of good ale. And now that the grains do work in my brains, Me thinks I were able to give by retaile Commodities store, a dozen and more, That flow to Mankind from a pot of good ale. The Muses would muse any should it misuse: For it makes them to sing like a Nightingale, With a lofty trim note, having washed their throat With the Caballine Spring of a pot of good ale. [? Castalian] And the Musician of any condition, It will make him reach to the top of his Scale: It will clear his pipes, and moisten his lights, If he drink alternatim a pot of good ale. The Poet Divine, that cannot reach Wine, Because that his money doth many times faile, Will hit on the vein to make a good strain, If he be but inspir’d with a pot of good ale. For ballads Elderton never had Peer; How went his wit in them, with how merry a Gale, And with all the Sails up, had he been at the Cup, And washed his beard with a pot of good ale. And the power of it showes, no whit less in Prose, It will file one’s Phrase, and set forth his Tale: Fill him but a Bowle, it will make his Tongue troul, For flowing speech flows from a pot of good ale. And Master Philosopher, if he drink his part, Will not trifle his time in the huske or the shale, But go to the kernell by the depth of his Art, To be found in the bottom of a pot of good ale. Give a Scholar of Oxford a pot of Sixteen, And put him to prove that an Ape hath no taile, And sixteen times better his wit will be seen, If you fetch him from Botley a pot of good ale. Thus it helps Speech and Wit: and it hurts not a whit, But rather doth further the Virtues Morale; Then think it not much if a little I touch The good moral parts of a pot of good ale. To the Church and Religion it is a good Friend, Or else our Fore-Fathers their wisedome did faile, That at every mile, next to the Church stile, Set a consecrate house to a pot of good ale. But now, as they say, Beer bears it away; The more is the pity, if right might prevaile: For, with this same Beer, came up Heresie here, The old Catholicke drink is a pot of good ale. The Churches much ow[e], as we all do know, For when they be drooping and ready to fall, By a Whitson or Church-ale, up again they shall go, And owe their repairing to a pot of good ale. Truth will do it right, it brings Truth to light, And many bad matters it helps to reveal: For, they that will drink, will speak what they think: Tom tell-troth lies hid in a pot of good ale. It is Justices Friend, she will it commend, For all is here served by measure and tale; Now, true-tale and good measure are Justices treasure, And much to the praise of a pot of good ale. And next I alledge, it is Fortitudes edge[,] For a very Cow-heard, that shrinks like a Snaile, Will swear and will swagger, and out goes his Dagger, If he be but arm’d with a pot of good ale. Yea, ale hath her Knights and Squires of Degree, That never wore Corslet, nor yet shirts of Maile, But have fought their fights all, twixt the pot and the wall, When once they were dub’d with a pot of good ale. And sure it will make a man suddenly wise, Er’e-while was scarce able to tell a right tale: It will open his jaw, he will tell you the Law, As make a right Bencher of a pot of good ale. Or he that will make a bargain to gain, In buying or setting his goods forth to sale, Must not plod in the mire, but sit by the fire, And seale up his Match with a pot of good ale. But for Soberness, needs must I confess, The matter goes hard; and few do prevaile Not to go too deep, but temper to keep, Such is the Attractive of a pot of good ale. But here’s an amends, which will make all Friends, And ever doth tend to the best availe: If you take it too deep, it will make you but sleep; So comes no great harm of a pot of good ale. If (reeling) they happen to fall to the ground, The fall is not great, they may hold by the Raile: If into the water, they cannot be drown’d, For that gift is given to a pot of good ale. If drinking about they chance to fall out, Fear not that Alarm, though flesh be but fraile; It will prove but some blowes, or at most a bloody nose, And Friends again straight with a pot of good ale. And Physic will favour ale, as it is bound, And be against Beere both tooth and naile; They send up and down, all over the town To get for their Patients a pot of good ale. Their Ale-berries, cawdles, and Possets each one, And Syllabubs made at the Milking-pale, Although they be many, Beere comes not in any, But all are composed with a pot of good ale. And in very deed the Hop’s but a Weed, Brought o’re against Law, and here set to sale: Would the Law were renew’d, and no more Beer brew’d, But all men betake them to a Pot of good ale. The Law that will take it under his wing, For, at every Law-day, or Moot of the hale, One is sworn to serve our Soveraigne the King, In the ancient Office of a conner of ale. There’s never a Lord of Mannor or of a Town, By strand or by land, by hill or by dale, But thinks it a Franchise, and a Flow’r of the Crown, To hold the Assize of a pot of good ale. And though there lie Writs from the Courts Paramount, To stay the proceedings of Courts Paravaile; Law favours it so, you may come, you may go, There lies no Prohibition to a pot of good ale. They talk much of State, both early and late, But if Gascoign and Spain their Wine should but faile, No remedy then, with us Englishmen, But the State it must stand by a pot of good ale. And they that sit by it are good men and quiet, No dangerous Plotters in the Common-weale Of Treason and Murder: For they never go further Than to call for, and pay for a pot of good ale. To the praise of Gambrivius that good Brittish King That devis’d for his Nation (by the Welshmen’s tale) Seventeen hundred years before Christ did spring, The happy invention of a pot of good ale. The North they will praise it, and praise with passion, Where every River gives name to a Dale: There men are yet living that are of th’ old fashion, No Nectar they know but a pot of good ale. The Picts and the Scots for ale were at lots, So high was the skill, and so kept under seale; The Picts were undone, slain each mothers son, For not teaching the Scots to make Hether Eale. But hither or thither, it skils not much whether: For Drink must be had, men live not by Keale, Not by Havor-bannocks nor by Havor-jannocks, The thing the Scots live on is a pot of good ale. Now, if ye will say it, I will not denay it, That many a man it brings to his bale: Yet what fairer end can one wish to his Friend, Th an to dye by the part of a pot of good ale. Yet let not the innocent bear any blame, It is their own doings to break o’re the pale: And neither the Malt, nor the good wife in fault, If any be potted with a pot of good ale. They tell whom it kills, but say not a word, How many a man liveth both sound and hale, Though he drink no Beer any day in the year, By the Radical humour of a pot of good ale. But to speak of Killing, that am I not willing, For that in a manner were but to raile: But Beer hath its name, ’cause it brings to the Biere, Therefore well-fare, say I, to a pot of good ale. Too many (I wis) with their deaths proved this, And, therefore (if ancient Records do not faile), He that first brew’d the Hop was rewarded with a rope, And found his Beer far more bitter than Ale. O Ale[!] ab alendo, the Liquor of Life, That I had but a mouth as big as a Whale! For mine is too little to touch the least tittle That belongs to the praise of a pot of good ale. Thus (I trow) some Vertues I have mark’d you out, And never a Vice in all this long traile, But that after the Pot there cometh the Shot, And that’s th’ onely blot of a pot of good ale.— With that my Friend said, that blot will I bear, You have done very well, it is time to strike saile, Wee’l have six pots more, though I dye on the score, To make all this good of a Pot of good ALE. [Followed by Ben Jonson’s Cook Lorrel, and by The Blacksmith: for which see Merry Drollery, Complete, pp. 214-17, 225-30.] [p. 14.] An Old Song of an Old Courtier and a New.[Part Second.] Like a young Gallant newly come to his Land, That keeps a brace of Creatures at’s own command, And takes up a thousand pounds upon’s own Band, And lieth drunk in a new Tavern, till he can neither go nor stand; like a young [Courtier of the Kings]. With a neat Lady that is fresh and fair, Who never knew what belong’d to good housekeeping or care, But buyes several Fans to play with the wanton ayre, And seventeen or eighteen dressings of other womens haire; like a young [Courtier of the Kings]. With a new Hall built where the old one stood, Wherein is burned neither coale nor wood, And a new Shuffel-board-table where never meat stood, Hung Round with Pictures, which doth the poor little good. like a young [Courtier of the Kings]. With a new study stuff’t full of Pamphlets and playes, With a new Chaplin, that swears faster then he prayes, With a new Buttery hatch that opens once in four or five dayes, With a new French-Cook to make Kickshawes and Tayes; like a young Courtier of the Kings. With a new Fashion, when Christmasse is come, With a journey up to London we must be gone, And leave no body at home but our new Porter John, Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone; Like a young [Courtier of the Kings]. With a Gentleman-Vsher whose carriage is compleat, With a Footman, a Coachman, a Page to carry meat, With a waiting Gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, Who when the master hath dyn’d gives the servants litle meat; Like a young [Courtier of the Kings]. With a new honour bought with his Fathers Old Gold, That many of his Fathers Old Manors hath sold, And this is the occasion that most men do hold, That good Hous[e]-keeping is now-a-dayes grown so cold; Like a young Courtier of the Kings. [Here follow, Arthur of Bradley (see Merry Drollery, Compleat, p. 312); The Green Gown: “Pan leave piping,” (see Westm. Droll., Appendix, p. 54); Gelding of the Devil: “Now listen a while, and I will you tell” (see Merry D., C., p. 200); Sir Egle More (ibid, p. 257); and St. George for England (ibid, p. 309). But, as the variations are great, in the last of these, it is here given from the Antidote ag. Mel., p. 26.] [p. 26.] The Ballad of St. George for England.Why should we boast of Arthur and his Knights? Know[ing] how many men have perform’d fights; Or why should we speak of Sir Lancelot du Lake, Or Sir Trestram du Leon, that fought for the Lady’s sake; Read old storyes, and there you’l see How St. George, St. George, did make the Dragon flee: St. George he was for England, St. Denis was for France, Sing Hony soitt qui Mal y pense. To speak of the Monarchy, it were two Long to tell; And likewise of the Romans, how far they did excel, Hannibal and Scipio, they many a field did fight; Orlando Furioso he was a valiant Knight; Romulus and Rhemus were those that Rome did build, But St. George, St. George, the Dragon he hath kill’d; St. George he was, &c. Jephtha and Gidion they led their men to fight The Gibeonites and Amonites, they put them all to flight; Hercul’es Labour was in the Vale of Brass, And Sampson slew a thousand with the Jaw-bone of an Asse, And when he was blind pull’d the Temple to the ground: But St. George, St. George, the Dragon did confound. St. George he was, &c. Valentine and Orson they came of Pipins blood, Alphred and Aldrecus they were brave Knights and good, The four sons of Amnon that fought with Charlemaine, Sir Hugh de Burdeaux and Godfray of Bolaigne, These were all French Knights the Pagans did Convert, But St. George, St. George, pull’d forth the Dragon’s heart: St. George he was, &c. Henry the fifth he Conquered all France, He quartered their Armes, his Honour to advance, He razed their Walls, and pull’d their Cities down, And garnished his Head with a double treble Crown; He thumbed the French, and after home he came! But St. George, St. George, he made the Dragon tame: St. George he was, &c. St. David you know, loves Leeks and tosted Cheese, And Jason was the Man, brought home the Golden Fleece; St. Patrick you know he was St. Georges Boy, Seven years he kept his Horse, and then stole him away, For which Knavish act, a slave he doth remain; But St. George, St. George, he hath the Dragon slain: St. George he was, &c. Tamberline, the Emperour, in Iron Cage did Crown, With his bloody Flag’s display’d before the Town; Scanderbag magnanimous Mahomets Bashaw did dread, Whose Victorious Bones were worn when he was dead; His Bedlerbegs, his Corn like drags, George Castriot was he call’d, But St. George, St. George, the Dragon he hath maul’d: St. George he was for England, St. Denis was for France, Sing Hony soit qui mal y pense. Ottoman, the Tartar, Cham of Persia’s race, The great Mogul, with his Chests so full of all his Cloves and Mace, The Grecian youth Bucephalus he manly did bestride, But those with all their Worthies Nine, St. George did them deride, Gustavus Adolphus was Swedelands Warlike King, But St. George, St. George, pull’d forth the Dragon’s sting. St. George he was for England, St. Dennis was for France, Sing Hony soit qui mal y pense. Pendragon and Cadwallader of British blood doe boast, Though John of Gant his foes did daunt, St. George shal rule the roast; Agamemnon and Cleomedon and Macedon did feats, But, compared to our Champion, they were but merely cheats; Brave Malta Knights in Turkish fights, their brandisht swords out-drew, But St. George met the Dragon, and ran him through and through: St. George he was, &c. Bidea, the Amazon, Photius overthrew, As fierce as either Vandal, Goth, Saracen, or Jew; The potent Holophernes, as he lay in his bed, In came wise Judith and subtly stool[e] his head; Brave Cyclops stout, with Jove he fought, Although he showr’d down Thunder; But St. George kill’d the Dragon, and was not that a wonder: St. George he was, &c. Mark Anthony, Ile warrant you Plaid feats with Egypts Queen, Sir Egla More that valiant Knight, the like was never seen, Grim Gorgons might, was known in fight, old Bevis most men frighted, The Myrmidons & Presbyter John, why were not those men knighted? Brave Spinola took in Breda, Nasaw did it recover, But St. George, St. George, he turn’d the Dragon over and over: St. George he was for England, St. Denis was for France, Sing, Hony soit qui mal y pense. A Ballad call’d Blew Cap for me.Come hither thou merriest of all the Nine, [p. 29.] Come, sit you down by me, and let us be jolly; And with a full Cup of Apollo’s wine, Wee’l dare our Enemy mad Melancholly; And when we have done, wee’l between us devise A pleasant new Dity by Art to comprise: And of this new Dity the matter shall be, If ever I have a man, blew cap for me. There dwells a blith Lass in Falkland Town And she hath Suitors I know not how many, And her resolution she had set down That she’l have a Blew Cap, if ever she have any. An Englishman when our geod Knight was there, Came often unto her, and loved her dear, Yet still she replyed, Geod Sir, La be, If ever I have a man, blew cap for me. A Welchman that had a long Sword by his side, Red Doublet, red Breech, and red Coat, and red Peard, Was made a great shew of a great deal of pride, Was tell her strange tales te like never heard; Was recon her pedegree long pefore Prute[,] No body was near that could her Confute; But still she reply’d, Geod Sir la be, If ever I have a man, blew Cap for me. A Frenchman that largely was booted and spurr’d, Long Lock with a ribbon, long points and long preeshes, Was ready to kisse her at every word, And for the other exercises his fingers itches; You be prety wench a Metrel, par ma Foy, Dear me do love you, be not so coy; Yet still replyed, Geod Sir, la be; If ever I have a man, blew Cap for me. An Irishman, with a long skeen in his Hose, Did think to obtain her, it was no great matter, Up stairs to the chamber so lightly he goes, That she never heard him until he came at her, Quoth he, I do love thee, by Fait and by Trot, And if thou wilt know it, experience shall sho’t, Yet still she reply’d, Geod sir, la be, If ever I have a man, blew Cap for me. A Netherland Mariner came there by chance, Whose cheekes did resemble two rosting pome-watters, And to this Blith lasse this sute did advance; Experience had taught him to cog, lie, and flatter; Quoth he, I will make thee sole Lady of the sea, Both Spanyard and English man shall thee obey: Yet still she replyed, [Geod sir, La be, If ever I have a man, blew cap for me]. At last came a Scotchman with a blew Cap, And that was the man for whom she had tarryed, To get this Blyth lass it was his Giud hap, They gan to Kirk and were presently married; She car’d not whether he were Lord or Leard, She call’d him sick a like name as I ne’r heard, To get him from aw she did well agree, And still she cryed, blew Cap thou art welcome to mee. [p. 30.] The Ballad of the Caps.The Wit hath long beholding been Unto the Cap to keep it in; But now the wits fly out amain, In prayse to quit the Cap again; The Cap that keeps the highest part Obtains the place by due desert: For any Cap, &c. [what ere it bee, Is still the signe of some degree.] The Monmouth Cap, the Saylors thrumbe, And that wherein the Tradesmen come, The Physick Cap, the Cap Divine, And that which Crownes the Muses nine, The Cap that fooles do Countenance, The goodly Cap of Maintenance. For any Cap, &c. The sickly Cap both plain and wrought, The Fudling cap, how ever bought, The worsted, Furr’d, the Velvet, Sattin, For which so many pates learn Latin; The Cruel cap, the Fustian Pate, The Perewig, a Cap of late: For any Cap, &c. The Souldiers that the Monmoth wear, On Castles tops their Ensigns rear; The Sea-man with his Thrumb doth stand On higher parts then all the Land; The Tradesmans Cap aloft is born, By vantage of a stately horn. For any Cap, &c. The Physick Cap to dust can bring Without controul the greatest King: The Lawyers Cap hath Heavenly might To make a crooked action straight; And if you’l line him in the fist, The Cause hee’l warrant as he list. For any Cap, &c. Both East and West, and North and South, Where ere the Gospel hath a mouth The Cap Divine doth thither look: Tis Square like Scholars and their Books: The rest are Round, but this is Square To shew their Wits more stable are: For any Cap, &c. The Jester he a Cap doth wear, Which makes him Fellow for a Peer, And ’tis no slender piece of Wit To act the Fool, where great Men sit, But O, the Cap of London Town! I wis, ’tis like a goodly Crown. For any Cap, &c. The sickly Cap[,] though wrought with silk, Is like repentance, white as milk; When Caps drop off at health apace, The Cap doth then your head uncase, The sick mans Cap (if wrought can tell) Though he be sick, his cap is well. For any Cap, &c. The fudling Cap by Bacchus Might, Turns night to day, and day to night; We know it makes proud heads to bend, The Lowly feet for to Ascend: It makes men richer then before, By seeing doubly all their score. For any Cap, &c. The furr’d and quilted Cap of age Can make a mouldy proverb sage, The Satin and the Velvet hive Into a Bishoprick may thrive, The Triple Cap may raise some hope, If fortune serve, to be a Pope; For any Cap, &c. The Perewig, O, this declares The rise of flesh, though fall of haires, And none but Grandsiers can proceed So far in sin, till they this need, Before the King who covered are, And only to themselves stand bare. For any Cap, what ere it bee, Is still the signe of some degree. [Next follow A Ballad of the Nose (see Merry Drollery, Compleat, p. 143), and A Song of the Hot-headed Zealot: to the tune of “Tom a Bedlam” (Dr. Richard Corbet’s, Ibid, p. 234).] [p. 37.] A Song On the Schismatick Rotundos.Once I a curious Eye did fix, To observe the tricks Of the schismatics of the Times, To find out which of them Was the merriest Theme, And best would befit my Rimes. Arminius I found solid, Socinians were not stolid, Much Learning for Papists did stickle. But ah, ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, Rotundos rot, Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, Rotundos rot, ’Tis you that my spleen doth tickle. And first to tell must not be forgot, How I once did trot With a great Zealot to a Lecture, Where I a Tub did view, Hung with apron blew: ’Twas the Preachers, as I conjecture. His life and his Doctrine too Were of no other hue, Though he spake in a tone most mickle; But ah, ha, ha, ha, &c. He taught amongst other prety things That the Book of Kings Small benefit brings to the godly, Beside he had some grudges At the Book of Judges, And talkt of Leviticus odly. Wisedome most of all He declares Apocryphal, Beat Bell and the Dragon like Michel: But, ah, ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, &c. Gainst Humaine Learning next he enveyes and most boldly say’s, ’Tis that which destroyes Inspiration: Let superstitious sence And wit be banished hence, With Popish Predomination: Cut Bishops down in hast, And Cathedrals as fast As corn that’s fit for the sickle: But ah, ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, Rotundos, rot, ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha Rotundos rot, ’Tis you that my spleen doth tickle. [The three next in the Antidote, respectively by Aurelian Townshend (?), Sir John Suckling, and “by T. R.” (or Dr. Thomas Wild?), are to be found also in our Merry Drollery, Compleat, pp. 218, 101, and 242. See Appendix Notes.] [p. 47.] The Welshmans Song, in praise of Wales.I’s not come here to tauke of Prut, From whence the Welse dos take hur root; Nor tell long Pedegree of Prince Camber, Whose linage would fill full a Chamber, Nor sing the deeds of ould Saint Davie, The Ursip of which would fill a Navie, But hark me now for a liddell tales Sall make a great deal to the creddit of Wales: For her will tudge your eares, With the praise of hur thirteen Seers, And make you as clad and merry, As fourteen pot of Perry. ’Tis true, was wear him Sherkin freize, But what is that? we have store of seize, [i.e. cheese,] And Got is plenty of Goats milk That[,] sell him well[,] will buy him silk Inough, to make him fine to quarrell At Herford Sizes in new apparrell; And get him as much green Melmet perhap, Sall give it a face to his Monmouth Cap. But then the ore of Lemster; Py Cot is uver a Sempster; That when he is spun, or did[,] Yet match him with hir thrid. Aull this the backs now, let us tell yee, Of some provision for the belly: As Kid and Goat, and great Goats Mother, And Runt and Cow, and good Cows uther. And once but tast on the Welse Mutton, Your Englis Seeps not worth a button. And then for your Fisse, shall choose it your disse, Look but about, and there is a Trout, A Salmon, Cot, or Chevin, Will feed you six or seven, As taull man as ever swagger With Welse Club, and long dagger. But all this while, was never think A word in praise of our Welse drink: And yet for aull that, is a Cup of Bragat, Aull England Seer may cast his Cap at. And what say you to Ale of Webly[?], Toudge him as well, you’ll praise him trebly, As well as Metheglin, or Syder, or Meath, Sall sake it your dagger quite out o’ th seath. And Oat-Cake of Guarthenion, With a goodly Leek or Onion, To give as sweet a rellis As e’r did Harper Ellis. And yet is nothing now all this, If our Musicks we do misse; Both Harps, and Pipes too; and the Crowd Must aull come in, and tauk aloud, As lowd as Bangu, Davies Bell, Of which is no doubt you have hear tell: As well as our lowder Wrexam Organ, And rumbling Rocks in the Seer of Glamorgan; Where look but in the ground there, And you sall see a sound there: That put her all to gedder, Is sweet as measure pedder. [Followed, in An Antidote, by the excellent poems, The Cavalier’s Complaint; to the tune of (Suckling’s) I’le tell thee, Dick, &c., with The Answer. For these, see Merry Drollery, Compleat, pp. 52-56, and 367.]: [p. 52.] On a Pint of Sack.Old poets Hipocrin admire, And pray to water to inspire Their wit and Muse with heavenly fire; Had they this Heav’nly Fountain seen, Sack both their Well and Muse had been, And this Pint-pot their Hipocrin. Had they truly discovered it They had like me thought it unfit To pray to water for their wit. And had adored Sack as divine, And made a Poet God of Wine, And this pint-pot had been a shrine. Sack unto them had been in stead Of Nectar, and their heav’nly bread, And ev’ry boy a Ganimed; Or had they made a God of it, Or stil’d it patron of their wit, This pot had been a temple fit. Well then Companions is’t not fit, Since to this Jemme we ow[e] our wit, That we should praise the Cabonet, And drink a health to this divine, And bounteous pallace of our wine[?]: Die he with thirst that doth repine! [p. 53.] A Song in Praise of Sack.Hang the Presbyters Gill, bring a pint of Sack, Will, More Orthodox of the two, Though a slender dispute, will strike the Elf mute, Here’s one of the honester Crew. In a pint there’s small heart, Sirrah, bring a Quart; There is substance and vigour met, ’Twill hold us in play, some part of the day, But wee’l sink him before Sun-set: The daring old Pottle, does now bid us battle, Let us try what our strength can do; Keep your ranks and your files, and for all his wiles, Wee’l tumble him down stayrs too. Then summon a Gallon, a stout Foe and a tall one, And likely to hold us to’t; Keep but Coyn in your purse, the word is Disburse, Ile warrant he’le sleep at your foot. Let’s drain the whole Celler, Pipes, Buts, and the Dweller, If the Wine floats not the faster; Will, when thou dost slack us, by warrant from Bacchus, We will cane thy tun-belli’d Master. [p. 54.] In the praise of WINE.’Tis Wine that inspires, And quencheth Loves fires, Teaches fools how to rule a S[t]ate: Mayds ne’re did approve it Because those that doe love it, Despise and laugh at their hate. The drinkers of beer Did ne’re yet appear In matters of any waight; ’Tis he whose designe Is quickn’d by wine That raises things to their height. We then should it prize For never black eyes Made wounds which this could not heale, Who then doth refuse, To drink of this Juice Is a foe to the Comon weale. [Followed by A Glee to the Vicar, beginning, “Let the bells ring, and the boys sing:” for which see the Introduction to our edition of Westminster Drollery, pp. xxxvii-viii.] [p. 55.] On a Cold Chyne of BEEF.Bring out the Old Chyne, the Cold Chyne to me, And how Ile charge him come and see, Brawn tusked, Brawn well sowst and fine, With a precious cup of Muscadine: Chorus. How shall I sing, how shall I look, In honour of the Master-Cook? The Pig shall turn round and answer me, Canst thou spare me a shoulder[?], a wy, a wy. The Duck, Goose and Capon, good fellows all three Shall dance thee an antick[,] so shall the turkey; But O! the cold Chyne, the cold Chyne for me: Chorus. How shall I sing, how shall I look, In honour of the Master-Cook? With brewis Ile noynt thee from head to th’ heel, Shal make thee run nimbler then the new oyld wheel[;] With Pye-crust wee’l make thee The eighth wise man to be; But O! the cold Chyne, the cold Chyne for me: Chorus. How shall I sing, how shall I look, In honour of the Master-Cook? [p. 56.] A Song of Cupid Scorn’d.In love[?] away, you do me wrong, I hope I ha’ not liv’d so long Free from the Treachery of your eyes, Now to be caught and made a prize, No, Lady, ’tis not all your art, Can make me and my freedome part. Chorus. Come, fill’s a cup of sherry, and let us be merry, There shall nought but pure wine Make us love-sick or pine, Wee’l hug the cup and kisse it, we’l sigh when ere we misse it; For tis that, that makes us jolly, And sing hy trololey lolly. In love, ’tis true, with Spanish wine, Or the French juice Incarnadine; But truly not with your sweet Face, This dimple, or that hidden grace, Ther’s far more sweetnesse in pure Wine, Then in those Lips or Eyes of thine. Chorus (Come, fill’s a cup of sherry, &c. Your god[,] you say, can shoot so right, Hee’l wound a heart ith darkest night: Pray let him throw away a dart, And try if he can hit my heart. No Cupid, if I shall be thine, Turn Ganimed and fill us Wine. Chorus (Come, fill’s a cup of sherry, &c. [The three next are common to the Antidote and Merry Drollery, Compleat, with a few verbal differences: On the Vertue of Sack, by Dr. Henry Edwards; The Medley of the Nations; and The Brewer, A Ballad made in the Year 1657, To the Tune of The Blacksmith. For them, see M. D., C., pp. 293, 127, 221. These three poems are followed by “A Collection of Merry Catches,” thirty-four in number, of which only ten are found in Merry Drollery, Compleat, (viz., 3. “Now that the Spring;” 5. “Call George again;” 9. “She that will eat;” 13. “The Wise-men were but Seven;” 14. “Shew a room!” 15. “O! the wily wily Fox;” 17. “Now I am married;” 19. “There was three Cooks in Colebrook;” 22. “If any so wise is;” and 29. “What fortune had I,”) on pp. 296, 304, 308, 232, 337, 300, 280, 318, 348, and 341, respectively. See notes on them, also, in Appendix to M. D., C. One other, first in the Antidote, had appeared earlier in Choice Drollery, p. 52: “He that a Tinker,” &c., q.v.] [p. 65.] A CATCH.2. You merry Poets[,] old Boyes Of Aganippes Well, Full many tales have told boyes Whose liquor doth excell, And how that place was haunted By those that love good wine; Who tipled there, and chaunted Among the Muses nine: Where still they cry’d[,] drink clear, boyes, And you shall quickly know it, That ’tis not lowzy Beer, boyes, But wine, that makes a Poet. [p. 66.] A CATCH.4. Mong’st all the precious Juices Afforded for our uses, Ther’s none to be compar’d with Sack: For the body or the mind, No such Physick you shall find, Therefore boy see we do not lack. Would’st thou hit a lofty strain, With this Liquor warm thy brain, And thou Swain shalt sing as sweet as Sidney; Or would’st thou laugh and be fat, Ther’s not any like to that To make Jack Sprat a man of kidney. [It] Is the soul of mirth To poor Mortals upon Earth; It would make a coward bold as Hector, Nay I wager durst a Peece, That those merry Gods of Greece Drank old Sack and Nector. [p. 67.] A CATCH.6. Come, come away to the Tavern I say, For now at home ’tis washing day: Leave your prittle prattle, and fill us a pottle[;] You are not so wise as Aristotle: Drawer come away, let’s make it Holy day. Anon, Anon, Anon, Sir: what is’t you say[?] A CATCH.A CATCH.11. Let’s cast away care, and merrily sing, There is a time for every thing; He that playes at work, and works at his play, Neither keeps working, nor yet Holy day: Set business aside, and let us be merry, And drown our dull thoughts in Canary and Sherry. A CATCH.12. Hang sorrow, and cast away care, And let us drink up our Sack: They say ’tis good to cherish the blood, And for to strengthen the back: Tis Wine that makes the thoughts aspire, And fills the body with heat; Besides ’tis good, if well understood [p. 69.] To fit a man for the feat; Then call, and drink up all, The drawer is ready to fill: Pox take care, what need we to spare, My Father has made his will. [p. 70.] A CATCH.16. My lady and her Maid, upon a merry pin, They made a match at F—ting, who should the wager win. Jone lights three candles then, and sets them bolt upright; With the first f—— she blew them out, With the next she gave them light: In comes my Lady then, with all her might and main, And blew them out, and in and out, and out and in again. A CATCH.18. An old house end, an old house end, And many a good fellow wants mon[e]y to spend. If thou wilt borrow Come hither to morrow I dare not part so soon with my friend[.] But let us be merry, and drink of our sherry, But to part with my mon[e]y I do not intend[.] Then a t—d in thy teeth, and an old house end. [p. 71.] A CATCH.20. Wilt thou lend me thy Mare to ride a mile No; she’s lame going over a stile, But if thou wilt her to me spare Thou shalt have mony for thy mare: Oh say you so, say you so, Mon[e]y will make my mare to go. THE ANSWER.21. Your mare is lame; she halts downe right, Then shall we not get to London to night: You cry’d ho, ho, mon[e]y made her go, But now I well perceive it is not so[.] You must spur her up, and put her to’t Though mon[e]y will not make her goe, your spurs will do’t. [p. 72.] A CATCH.23. Good Symon, how comes it your Nose looks so red, And your cheeks and lips look so pale? Sure the heat of the tost your Nose did so rost, When they were both sous’t in Ale. It showes like the Spire of Pauls steeple on fire, Each Ruby darts forth (such lightning) Flashes, While your face looks as dead, as if it were Lead And cover’d all over with ashes. Now to heighten his colour, yet fill his pot fuller And nick it not so with froth, Gra-mercy, mine Host! it shall save the[e] a Toast Sup Simon, for here is good broth. A CATCH.24. Wilt thou be Fatt, Ile tell thee how, Thou shalt quickly do the Feat; And that so plump a thing as thou Was never yet made up of meat: Drink off thy Sack, twas onely that Made Bacchus and Jack Falstafe, Fatt. Now, every Fat man I advise, That scarce can peep out of his eyes, Which being set, can hardly rise; [p. 73.] Drink off his Sack, and freely quaff: ’Twil make him lean, but me [to] laugh To tell him how —— ’tis on a staff. A CATCH.25. Of all the Birds that ever I see, The Owle is the fairest in her degree; For all the day long she sits in a tree, And when the night comes, away flies she; To whit, to whow, to whom drink[’st] thou, Sir Knave to thou; This song is well sung, I make you a vow, [p. 73.] And he is a knave that drinketh now; Nose, Nose, Nose, and who gave thee that jolly red Nose? [Cinnamon and gin-ger,] Nutmegs and Cloves, and that gave thee thy jolly red Nose. A CATCH.26. This Ale, my bonny Lads, is as brown as a berry, Then let us be merry here an houre, And drink it ere its sowre Here’s to the[e], lad, Come to me, lad; Let it come Boy, To my Thumb boy. Drink it off Sir; ’tis enough Sir; Fill mine Host, Tom’s Pot and Toast. A CATCH.27. What! are we met? come, let’s see If here’s enough to sing this Glee. Look about, count your number, Singing will keep us from crazy slumber; 1, 2, and 3, so many there be that can sing, The rest for wine may ring: Here is Tom, Jack and Harry; Sing away and doe not tarry, Merrily now let’s sing, carouse, and tiple, Here’s Bristow milk, come suck this niple, There’s a fault sir, never halt Sir, before a criple. A CATCH.28. Jog on, jog on the Foot path-way, And merrily hen’t the stile-a; Your merry heart go’es all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a. Your paltry mony bags of Gold, What need have we to stare-for, When little or nothing soon is told, And we have the less to care-for? Cast care away, let sorrow cease, [p. 74.] A Figg for Melancholly; Let’s laugh and sing, or if you please, We’l frolick with sweet Dolly. A SONG.Translated out of Greek. 30. The parcht Earth drinks the Rain, Trees drink it up again; The Sea the Ayre doth quaff, Sol drinks the Ocean off; And when that Health is done, Pale Cinthia drinks the sun: Why, then, d’ye stem my drinking Tyde, Striving to make me sad, I will, I will be mad. [p. 75.] A CATCH.31. Fly, Boy, Fly, Boy, to the Cellars bottom: View well your Quills and Bung, Sir. Draw Wine to preserve the Lungs Sir; Not rascally Wine to Rot u’m. If the Quill runs foul, Be a trusty soul, and cane it; For the Health is such An ill drop will much profane it. UPON A WELCHMAN.32. A Man of Wales, a litle before Easter Ran on his Hostes score for Cheese a teaster: His Hostes chalkt it up behind the doore, And said, For Cheese (good Sir) Come pay the score: Cod’s Pluternails (quoth he) what meaneth these? What dost thou think her knows not Chalk from Cheese? A SONG.33. Drink, drink, all you that think To cure your souls of sadnesse; Take up your Sack, ’tis all you lack, All worldly care is madness. Let Lawyers plead, and Schollars read, And Sectaries still conjecture, Yet we can be as merry as they, With a Cup of Apollo’s nectar. Let gluttons feed, and souldiers bleed, And fight for reputation, Physicians be fools to fill up close stools, And cure men by purgation: Yet we have a way far better than they, Which Galen could never conjecture, To cure the head, nay quicken the dead, With a cup of Apollo’s Nectar. We do forget we are in debt When we with liquor are warmed; We dare out-face the Sergeant’s Mace, [p. 76.] And Martiall Troops though armed. The Swedish King much honour did win, And valiant was as Hector; Yet we can be as valiant as he, With a cup of Apollo’s Nectar. Let the worlds slave his comfort have, And hug his hoards of treasure, Till he and his wish meet both in a dish, So dies a miser in pleasure. ’Tis not a fat farm our wishes can charm, We scorn this greedy conjecture; ’Tis a health to our friend, to whom we commend This cup of Apollo’s Nectar. The Pipe and the Pot, are our common shot, Wherewith we keep a quarter; Enough for to choak with fire and smoak The Great Turk and the Tartar. Our faces red, our ensignes spread, Apollo is our Protector: To rear up the Scout, to run in and out, And drink up this cup of Nectar. A CATCH.34. Welcome, welcome again to thy wits, This is a Holy day: I’le have no plots nor melancholly fits, But merrily passe the time away: They are mad that are sad; Be rul’d, by me, And none shall be so merry as we; The Kitchin shall catch cold no more, And we’l have no key to the Buttery dore, The fidlers shall sing, And the house shall ring, And the world shall see What a merry couple, Merry couple, We will be. 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