Democritus, or Doctor Merry-man his Medicines against Melancholy humors. Written by S. R. [i.e. by Samuel Rowlands] |
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[An old stale Widdower, quite past the best] |
 | Democritus, or Doctor Merry-man his Medicines |  |
[An old stale Widdower, quite past the best]
An old stale Widdower, quite past the best,That had nothing about him in request,
Saue onely that he carryed in his purse,
Would haue a tender Wench to be his Nurse.
His sight was dim, his teeth were rotted out,
His hands had palzy, and his legges the Gout:
Yet he would Wench it with a daynty Mayde,
Whose beauties pride in all the parish swayde;
And had her equall hardly to be seene,
A tender young one, much about fifteene:
This gallant to her did a Sutor goe,
With much adoe, his legs did plague him so:
Yet with his staffe a pretty shift he made,
Who told her Cupid had the villaine playd
With his poore hart, t'was wounded for hir sake,
And she must needs the healing plaister make.
The Mayde beheld him with a lothing eye,
And for his quicke dispatch, made quicke reply:
And Sir (quoth she) your suite in loue withdraw,
Thou shall not thatch my new house, with old straw.
| Democritus, or Doctor Merry-man his Medicines | |