The letting of hvmovrs blood in the head-vaine With a new Moriffco, daunced by seauen Satyres, vpon the bottome of Diogines Tubbe [by Samuel Reynolds] |
 |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
| 26. |
| 27. |
| 28. |
| 29. |
| 30. |
| 31. |
| 32. |
| 33. |
| 34. |
| 35. |
| 36. |
| 37. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. | 4. SATIRE.
|
| 5. |
| 6. |
 | The letting of hvmovrs blood in the head-vaine |  |
4. SATIRE.
[Melfluuious, sweete Rose-watred elloquence]
Melfluuious , sweete Rose-watred elloquence,Thou that hast hunted Barbarisme hence,
And taught the goodman Cobbin at his plow,
To be as elloquent as Tullie now:
Who nominicates his Bread and Cheese a name,
(That doth vntrusse the nature of the same)
His stomacke stayer. How dee like the phrase?
Are Plowmen simple fellowes now a dayes?
Not so my Maisters: What meanes Singer then?
And Pope the Clowne, to speake so Boorish, when
They counterfaite the clownes vpon the Stage?
Since Countrey fellowes grow in this same age,
To be so quaint in their new printed speech,
That cloth will now compare with Veluet breech
Let him discourse euen where, and when he dare,
Talke nere so Ynk-horne learnedly and rare,
Sweare Cloth breech is a pessant (by the Lord)
Tush, Cloth-breech doth deride him with a laugh,
And lets him see Bone-baster, thats his staffe:
Then tels him brother, friend, or so foorth, heare ye
Tis not your knitting-needle makes me feare ye.
If to ascention you are so declinde,
I haue a restitution in my minde:
For though your beard do stand so fine mustated,
Perhaps your nose may be transfisticated.
Man, I dare challenge thee to throw the sledge,
To iumpe or leape ouer a ditch or hedge,
To wrasile, play a stooleball, or to runne,
To pitch the barre, or to shoote off a gunne,
To play at loggets, nine holes, or ten pinnes,
To trie it out at foot-ball by the shinnes;
At Ticktacke, Irish, Noddie, Maw, and Ruffe:
At hot-cockles, leape-frogge, or blindman-buffe.
To drinke halfe pots, or deale at the whole canne:
To play at base, or pen-and Ynk-horne sir Ihan:
To daunce the Morris, play at barly-breake:
At all exploytes a man can thinke or speake:
At shoue-groate, venter-poynt, or crosse and pile.
At beshrow him that's last at yonder stile,
Or at the drawing Dun out of the myer:
At any of these, or all these presently,
Wagge but your finger, I am for you, I.
I scorne (that am a youngster of our towne)
To let a Bow-bell Cockney put me downe.
This is a Gallant farre beyond a Gull,
For very valour filles his pockets full.
Wit showers vpon him Wisedomes raine in plenty,
For heele be hangd, if any man finde twenty
In all their parish, whatsoere they be,
Can shew a head so polleticke as he.
It was his fathers lucke of late to die
Untestate; he about the Legacie
To London came, inquiring all about,
How he might finde a Ciuill-villin out,
Being vnto a Ciuill Lawyer sent,
Pray Sir (quoth he) are you the man I meant:
That haue a certaine kind of occupation,
About dead men, that leaue things out of fashion:
Death hath done that which t'answere he's not able
My father he is dyed detestable:
I being his eldest heire, he did prefer
And verie breifly my request to finnish,
Pray how may I by law, his goods diminnish?
Was this a Clowne? tell true, or was a none?
You make fatte Clownes, if such as he be one:
A man may sweare, if he were vrg'd to it.
Foolisher fellowes, haue not so much wit.
Oh such as he, are euen the onely men,
Loue letters in a Minke-maydes praise to pen:
Lines that will worke the curstest sullen shrow,
To loue a man whether she will or no.
Being most wonderous patheticall,
To make Cisse out a cry in loue withall:
He scornes that maister Scholemaister shold think
He wants his aide in halfe a pen of ynke:
All that he doth it commeth euery whit,
From natures dry-fat, his owne mother wit.
As thus:
Thou Fionny suckle of the Hawthorne hedge,
Vouchsafe in Cupids cuppe my hart to pledge,
My hartes deare blood sweete Cis as thy carouse,
Worth all the Ale on Gammer Gubbins house:
I say no more, affaires call me away,
Be thou the Lady Cresser-light to mee,
Sir Trollelolle I will proue to thee.
Written in haste: farewell my Cowslippe sweete,
Pray lets a Sunday at the Ale-house meete.
FINIS.
| The letting of hvmovrs blood in the head-vaine | |