Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I am a Pedler, and I sell my ware
This brave Saint Barthol, or Sturbridge Faire,
I'l sell all for laughter, that's all my gaines,
Such Chapmen should be laught at for their paines.
Come buy my wits which I have hither brought,
For wit is never good till it be bought;
Let me not beare all backe, buy some the while,
If laughter be too deare, tak't for a smile;
My trade is jesting now, or quible speaking,
Strange trade you'l say, for it's set up with breaking?
My Shop and I, am all at your command,
For lawfull English laughter paid at hand,
Now will I trust no more, it were in vaine
To breake, and make a Craddocke of my braine:
Halfe have not paid me yet, first there is one
Owes me a quart for his declamation,
Anothers morning draught, is not yet paid
For foure Epistles at the election made,
Nor dare I crosse him who do's owe as yet
Three ells of jests to line Priorums wit.
But here's a Courtier has so long a bill,
'Twill fright him to behold it, yet I will
Relate the summes: Item, he owes me first,
For an Imprimis: but what grieves me worst,
A dainty Epigram on his Spaniels taile
Cost me an houre, besides five pots of Ale.
Item an Anagram on his Mistris name,
Item the speech wherewith he courts his Dame,
And an old blubbur'd scowling Elegy

Vpon his Masters Dogs sad exequy,
Nor can I yet the time exactly gather,
When I was payd for an Epytaph on's Father,
Besides he never yet gave me content
For the new coyning of's last Complement,
Should I speake all' b'es spoken to his praise,
The totall summe is, what he think, or sayes,
I will not let you runne so much o'th'score,
Poore Duck-Lane braines, trust me, I'l trust no more;
Shall's jest for nought, have you all conscience lost?
Or do you think our Sacke did nothing cost?
Well, then it must be done as I have said,
I needes must be with present laughter paid:
I am a free man, for by this sweet Rhyme,
The fellowes know I have secur'd the time;
Yet if you please to grace my poore adventures,
I'm bound to you in more than ten Indentures.

Who will not pitty Points, when each man sees
To begging they are fallen upon their knees?
Though I beg pitty, think I doe not feare
Censuring Criticke whelps, no point Mounsier:
If you hate Points, and these like merry speeches,
You may want Points for to trusse up your Breeches.
And from the close-stoole may he never move,

What hating Points, doth clasps and keepers love;
But if my Points have here at all offended,
Ile tell you a way boy how all may be amended:
Speak to the Point, and that shall answer friend,
All is not worth a point, and there's an end.

If any this Looking-Glasse disgrace,
It is because he dares not see his face:
Then what I am, I will not see (faith) say,
'Twas the whores Argument, when she threw't away.

Come buy my braines, you ignorane Gulls,
And furnish here your empty sculls;
Pay you laughter, as it's fit,
To the learned Pedlar of wit:

Quickly come, and quickly buy,
Or I'l shut my Shop, and fooles you'l dye
If your Concomes you would quoddle,
Here buy Braines to fill your noddle.
Who buyes my braines, learnes quickly here
To make a Probleme in a yeere;
Shall understand the predicable,
And the predicamentall Rabble:
Who buyes them not, shall die a foole;
An exotericke in the Schoole:
Who has not these, shall ever passe
For a great Acromaticall Asse:
Buy then this Box of Braines; who buyes not it,
Shall never surfet on too much wit.

Come from thy Pallace, beauteous Queen of Greece,
Sweet Hellen of the world, rise like the morne,
Clad in the smocke of night, that all the stars
May lose their eyes, and then grow blinde,
Runne weeping to the man i'th' Moone,
To borrow his Dogge to leade the Spheares a begging.
Rare Empresse of our souls, whose Charcoale flames
Burne the poore Colts foot of amazed hearts.
Uiew the dumbe Audience thy beauty spyes,
And then amaz'd with friefe, laugh out their eyes.

Faire Madame, thee whose every thing
Deserves the Close-stoole of a King:
Whose head is faire as any bone,
White and smooth as Pumice stone,
Whose naturall baldnesse scornes to weare
The needlesse excrements of haire,
Whose fore-head streakes, our hearts commands,
Like Dover Cliffs, or Goodwyn sands.
While from those dainty Glo-worme eyes,
Cupid shoots Plum pudding Pyes,
While from the Arches of thy nose,
A Creame-pot of white Nectar flowes.
Faire dainty lips, so smooth, so sleeke,
And truly Alabaster cheeke.

Pure Saffron teeth, happy the meate
That such pretty milnestones eàte.
O let me heare some silent Song,
Tun'd by the Iewes-Trumpe of thy tongue.
Oh, how that Chin becomes thee well,
Where never hairy Beard shall dwell;
Thy Corall meke doth statlier bow,
Than Ios, when she turn'd a Cow:
O let me, or I shall ne'r rest,
Sucke the blacke bottles of thy brest;
Or lay my head, and rest me still
On that dainty Hog magog hill.
Oh curious, and unfathom'd Waste,
As slender as the stateliest Mast:
Thy fingers too breed my delight,
Each Wart a naturall Margarite.
Oh pitty then my dismall moane,
Able to melt thy heart of Stone.
Thou know'st how I lament and howle,
Weepe, snort, condole, looke sad and scowle:
Each night so great, my passions be,
I cannot wake for thought of thee.
Thy Gowne can tell how much I lov'd,
Thy Petticoate to pitty moov'd.
Then let thy Pedler mercy finde,
To kisse thee once though it be behinde.
Sweet kisse, sweet lips, delicious sense,
How sweet a Zephyrus blowes from thence;
Blest petticoat, more blest her Smocke,
That daily busseth her Buttocke:
For now the Proverbe true I finde,
That the best part is still behind.
Sweet dainty soule, daigne but to give
The poore Pedler this hanging sleeve.
And in thine honour, by this kisse,

Ile daily weare my Packe in this
And quickly so beare thee more fame,
Than Quixot the Knight Errants Dame:
So farewell sweet, daigne but to touch,
And once againe re-blesse my Pouch.

The Pedler calls for his Coltstaffe.

Some friend must now perforce
Make haste, and bid my Boy
To saddle me my woodden Horse,
For I meane to conquer Troy.