The works of Sr William Davenant ... Consisting of Those which were formerly Printed, and Those which he design'd for the Press: Now published Out of the Authors Originall Copies |
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To I. C. Robb'd by his Man Andrew.
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 | The works of Sr William Davenant |  |
To I. C. Robb'd by his Man Andrew.
Sir, whom I now love more, then did the goodSaint Martin, that all-naked-Flesh-and bloud,
Whose Cloake (at Plimouth spun) was Crab-tree wood.
His own was Tammy sure; which made it teare
So soon into a gift; and thou (I feare)
Wilt beg half mine, not to bestow, but wear:
For thy Saint-Andrew sought not out the way
To keep thee warme, but make thee watch, and pray;
That is, for his returne; about Doomes-day;
Worse left, than blushing Adam, who withdrew,
The nakedness he fear'd, more than he knew;
Not to a Mercers, but where Fig-leaves grew:
Which sew'd with strings of slender weeds, cloath men
Cheaper than Silks, that must be paid for, when
It pleases the chief Scribe 'oth' Chamberlen.
Though my sick Joynts, cannot accompany
Thy Hue-on-cry; though Midnight parlies be
Silenc'd long since, 'tween Constables, and me,
Without their helps; or Suburb-Justices,
(Upon whose justice now an Impost lies,
For with the price of Beef, their Warrants rise)
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Wretch stands: thy guiltless Robes (ne're hang'd for sale;)
He executes, on sundry Broakers Nayle.
Instead of him (chas'd thence by his wise feare)
Does the Mothers joy, a bold Youth appear;
Who swaggers up to Forty Markes a year!
Sometimes he troubles Law, at th'Inns of Court;
Now comes to buy him Weeds of shining sort;
And faine would have thy Cloak, but 'tis too short:
Too short (neat Sir) was all thy rifled store;
Which made those Brokers curse thy Stature more,
Than thou, Friend-Andrew, the sad day before.
But hark! who knocks; good truth my Muse is staid,
By an Apothecaries Bill unpaid;
Whose length, not strange-nam'd Drugs, makes her afraid.
| The works of Sr William Davenant | |