The springs glorie vindicating love by temperance against the tenent, Sine Cerere & Baccho friget Venus. Moralized in a Maske. With other Poems, Epigrams, Elegies, and Epithalamiums of the Authors Thomas Nabbes |
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 | The springs glorie |  |
Hast thou none left of thy sixe yeares before hand? If the Stationers refuse to trust, our bookes shall never more credit the Company with rubricks in the title.
2. Alm.
Wee'le try all the houses in the Zodiac; and if they will not trust, wee'le pull'downe the signes.
3. Alm.
Here is the signe of the Moone, the rendevous of our fraternitie. If the worst comes to the worst, wee'le pawne Time for the reckoning.
By your favour we may more easily spend him.
Hostesse enters.
3. Alm.
Here comes shee will fill us the comfortable liquor.
2. Alm.
By the dozen?
3. Alm.
By the score boy. Wilt not Hostesse?
Host.
No indeed sir. I'le hazard no more upon your next yeares Almanack. You say there's a man in the Moone drinkes Claret; keepe him company. The woman at the Moone will keepe her Ale for better customers.
3. Alm.
Shall wee have no Ale then?
Hostesse.
Not a cockle-shell full without money before-hand.
3. Alm.
Here's two groats; fetch every man his pot, and before we drinke a health wee'le curse thee.
Host.
The Foxe will fare the better.
Exit.
Maist thou have alwayes pennilesse guests like us, 'till thou pawne thy petticoate to pay the Brewer, and thy glorious shelves shine not so much as with an earthen platter. Instead of Shoelane hangings may the walls of thy house be painted with chalke; and the figures of no more valew then cyphars. Mayst thou weekly be subject to informers, and thy forfeited licence be put to the last use of wast paper.
Host. enters with drinke, and exit presently.
Host.
Stop your mouth sir.
3. Alm.
Hast thou brought Ale? cry thee mercy. Here's a health to the Prince, whose Birth-day Time would have should be the whole subject of an Almanack.
4. Alm.
Let him give the conceipt to a Poet; it may be worth a day to him.
They drinke, and are transformed into Satyres, hornes growing out of their heads.
3. Alm.
Time enters.
Ha! hath Circes given us an inchanted cup; or are our
wives turn'd City Witches? These are fine jestes.
Time.
'Tis your owne idle humour makes you beasts.
Forgive us Time.
Time.
Nay dance a Horne-pipe now.
That done perhaps I'le crop your well-growne brow.
They dance: at the end whereof their hornes fall away.
| The springs glorie | |