 | The Knave of Harts |  |
A prophane Knaue.
Sir, saue your labour, spend no breath in vaine,Keepe your Instructions, they smell Puritane:
If that your nicenesse can abide no Iest,
You may refraine, we hold your absence best.
You must not teach Good-fellowes what to doe:
VVe can serue God, and yet be merry too:
Here's better men by ods, then thou in place,
Can dine and suppe, without your saying Grace.
My father was foure-score before he dide,
Faire Gamester, and a good consort beside;
Belou'd amongst his neighbours (where he dwelt)
Yet of the Puritane he neuer smelt.
VVhen he had guests with stomacks to their meat,
His grace was this; Welcome, my master:, eate,
I pray fall too, and let few words suffice:
And neuer taught his children otherwise:
So (for my part) I follow that rule still,
Giue me good victuals, and say grace who will;
It causeth hunger in my guts a-breeding,
And keepes them fasting, that would faine be feeding.
| The Knave of Harts | |