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A hote Contention.
A controuersie there did happen late,Where strangers met about a hot debate,
Which I hope (Reader) ne're shall trouble vs:
A sweating thing, cald Morbus Gallicus,
The Frenchman swore they did his Nation wrong
That said the pox did vnto them belong,
Giuing it nick-names by the tearme of French,
As though no other had the fault to wench.
For he would proue to the Italians face,
That it was borrow'd from their stocke and race.
Th' Italian look'd vpon him sterne and grim,
And said the Spaniard had it before him,
The pox, or he, would pull his Beard from's Chin.
The Spaniard vow'd he manifest could show,
He fetch'd it from the Indies long ago.
When first they went for Gold and Siluer thether,
They brought home mettall, and the pox together.
At length came certaine English, Scots, and Dutch.
Who hearing their contention grow so much,
Would take vpon them an arbitterment
To make all friends, so vnto cups they went,
Powring in wine, taking Tobacco so,
Vpon them all the Frenchman did bestow
His pockey kindnes, which doth so appeare,
That none can boasting say, his Nations cleare.
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