University of Virginia Library

Roome, roome, for my Horse will wince,
If he come within so many yards of a Prince,
And though he have not on his wings,
He will doe strange things.
He is the Pegasus that uses
To waite on Warwick Muses;
And on gaudy-dayes he paces
Before the Coventrie Graces;
For to tell you true, and in rime,
He was foald in Q. Elizabeths time,
When the great Earle of Lester
In this Castle did feast her.

Now, I am not so stupid
To thinke, you thinke me a Cupid;
Or a Mercurie, that sit him:
Though these Cocks here would fit him.
But a spirit very civill,
Neither Poets God, nor Devill,
An old Kenelworth Fox,
The Ghost of Captaine Cox,
For which I am the bolder,
To weare a Cock on each shoulder.

This Captaine Cox, by St. Mary,
Was at Bullen with King Hary;
And (if some doe not vary)
Had a goodly library,
By which he was discerned
To be one of the learned
To entertaine the Queene here,
When last she was seene here.
And for the Towne of Coventrie
To act to her soveraigntie.
But so his lot fell out,
That serving then afoot,
And being a little man;
When the skirmish began
'Twixt the Saxon, and the Dane,
(For thence the storie was tane)
Hee was not so well seene
As he would have beene o'the Queene.
Though this sword were twice so long
As any mans else in the throng
And for his sake, the Play
Was call'd for the second day.
But he made a vow
(And he performes it now)
That were he alive, or dead,
Hereafter, it should never be sed
But Cap. Cox would serve on horse
For better or for worse,
If any Prince came hither.

And his horse should have a feather
Nay, such a Prince it might be
Perhaps he should have three.

Now, Sir (in your approach
The rumbling of your Coach
Awaking me, (his Ghost)
I come to play your Host;
And feast your eyes and eares,
Neither with Dogs, nor Beares,
Though that have beene a fit
Of our maine-shire wit,
In times heretofore,
But now, we have got a little more.

These then that we present
With a most loyall intent
And (as the Author saith)
No ill meaning to the Catholique faith,
Are not so much beasts, as Fowles,
But a very Nest of Owles,
And naturall, so thrive I,
I found them in the Ivy,
A thing, that though I blundred at,
It may in time be wondred at,
If the place but affords
Any store of lucky birds,
As I make'em to flush
Each Owle out of his bush.

Now, these Owles (some say) were men,
And they may be soagen,
If once they endure the light
Of your highnesse sight:
For Bank-rupts, we have knowne
Rise to more then their owne.
With a little-little savour
Of the Princes favour,
But, as you like their tricks,
I'le spring 'em, they are but six.
Hey, Owle first.
This Bird is London bred
As you may see by his horn'd head.
And had like to have beene tane
At his shop in Ivy-lane,
Where he sold by the peney
Tobacco, as good as any;
But, whether it did provoke
His conscience, he sold smoke;
Or some other toy he tooke,
Towards his calling to looke:
He fled by Moone-shine thence;
And broke for sixteene pence.
Hey, Owle second.
This too, the more is the pittie
Is of the breed, of the same Citie,
A true Owle of London
That gives out he is undone,
Being a Cheese-monger,
By trusting two of the younger
Captaines, for the hunger
Of their halfe-staru'd number;
Whom since they have shipt away:
And left him God to pay,
With those eares for a badge
Of their dealing with his Madge.
Hey, Owle third.
A pure native Bird
This, and though his hue
Be not Coventrie-blue,
Yet is he undone
By the thred he has spunne,
For since the wise towne
Has let the sports downe
Of May-games, and Morris,
For which he right sorry is:
Where their Maides, and their Makes,
At dancings, and Wakes,
Had their Napkins, and poses,
And the wipers for their noses.
And their smocks, all-be-wrought
With his thred which they bought,
It now lies on his hands,
And having neither wit, nor lands,
Is ready to hang, or choke him,
In a skeyne of that, that broke him.
Hey, Owle fourth.
Was once a Bankrupt of worth;
And having run a shifting race
At last by money, and grace,
Got him a Serjeants place,
And to be one of Chace.
A full fortnight was not spent,
But out comes the Parliament,
Takes away the use of his Mace,
And left him in a worse, then his first case.
Hey, Owle the fift.
But here was a defeat,
Never any so great,
Of a Don, a Spanish Reader,
Who had thought to have bin the Leader
(Had the Match gon on)
Of our Ladyes one by one,
And triumpht our whole Nation,
In his Rodomant fashion:
But now since the breach,
He has not a Scholler to teach.
Hey, Owle sixt.
The Bird-bringer up is a Knight,
But a passionate wight,
Who, since the Act against swearing,
(The tale's worth your hearing)
In this short times growth
Hath at twelve pence an oath;
For that (I take it) is the rate
Sworne himselfe out of his estate.
The third varied.
A Crop-eard Scrivener, this,
Who when he heard but the whis-
per of moneys to come downe,
Fright got him out of Towne
With all the Bills and Bands
Of other mens in his hands,
And cry'd, who will drive the trade,
Since such a Law they had made:
It was not he that broke.
Two i'the hundred spoke.
Nor car'd he for the curse,
He could not heare much worse,
He had his eares in his purse.