Wit restor'd in several select poems not formerly publish't.

About this Item

Title
Wit restor'd in several select poems not formerly publish't.
Author
Mennes, John, Sir, 1599-1671.
Publication
London :: Printed for R. Pollard, N. Brooks, and T. Dring, and are to be sold at the Old Exchange, and in Fleetstreet,
1658.
Rights/Permissions

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Subject terms
Humorous poetry.
Burlesques.
Link to this Item
http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A52015.0001.001
Cite this Item
"Wit restor'd in several select poems not formerly publish't." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A52015.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed May 27, 2025.

Pages

Page 169

The old Ballet of shepheard Tom.

AS I late wandred over a Plaine, Upon a hill piping I spide a shephards swaine: His slops were of green, his coat was of gray, And on his head a wreath of willow & of bay. He sigh'd and he pip't, His eyes he often wip't, He curst and ban'd the boy, That first brought his annoy: Who with the fire of desire, so inflam'd his minde, To doate upon a lasse; so various & unkinde.
Then howling, he threw his whistle a way, And beat his heeles agen the ground whereon he lay. He swore & he star'dhe was quite bereft of hope, And out of his scrip he pulled a rope: Quoth he, the man that wooes, With me prepare his noose; For rather then I'le fry, By hemp Ile choose to dy. Then up he rose, & he goes streight unto a tree, Where he thus complaines of his lasses cruelty,
A pox upon the divell, that ever twas my lot, To set my love upon so wooddish a trot.

Page 170

Had not I been better took Ione of the mill, Kate of the creame house, or bony bouncing Nell: A Proud word I speak I had them at my beck; And they on holydayes Would give me prick and praise. But Phillis she was to me dearer then my eyes, For whom I now indure these plaguy miseryes.
Oft have I woo'd her with many a teare, With ribband for her head tire, and laces from the fayre, With bone-lace and with shoone, with bracelets and with pinns, And many a toy besides: good god forgive my sinns. And yet this plaguy flirt Would ding them in the dirte And smile to see mee tear, The locks from of my haire. To scratch my chops, rend my slops, & at wakes to sit Like to a sot bereft both of reason sense and witt. Therefore from this bough Tom bids a dew To the shepherds of the valley, and all the joviall crew. Farewell Thump, my ram, and Cut my bobtaild curre, Behold your Mr, proves his owne murtherer.

Page 171

Goe to my Philis, goe, Tell her this tale of woe. Tell her where she may finde Me tottering in the winde. Say on a tree she may see her Tom rid from all care, Where she may take him napping as Mosse took his Mare. His Philis by chance stood close in a bush, And as the Clowne did sprawle, she streight to him did rush. She cut in two the rope and thus to him she said, Dispairing Tom, my Tom, thou hast undone a maid. Then as one amaz'd. Upon her face he gaz'd; And in this wofull case, She kist his pallid face, He whoopt amaine, swore, no swaine ever more should be, Soe happy in his love, nor halfe so sweet as she,
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