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

To the Tune of The beginning of the World.

R. P. Delight.

O Mother, chave bin a batchelour, This twelve and twanty yeare; And I'ze have often beene a wowing, And yet cham never the neare: Ione Gromball chee'l ha' non s' mee, Ize look so like a lowt; But I vaith, cham as propper a man as zhe. Zhee need not be zo stout.

She zaies ifize, cond daunce and zing, As Thomas Miller con, Or cut a cauper, as litle Iack Taylor: O how chee'd love mee thon. But zoft and faire, chil none of that, I vaith cham not zo nimble; The Tailor hath nought to trouble his thought But his needel and his thimble,

O zon, th'art of a lawfull age, And a jolly tidy boy, Ide have thee try her once a gaine, She can but say thee nay:

Then O Gramarcy mother, Chill zet a good vace o' the matter, Chill dresse up my zon as fine as a dog And chill have a fresh bout at her.

And first chill put on my zunday parrell That's lac't about the quarters; With a paire of buckram slopps, And a vlanting paire of garters. With my sword tide vast to my zide, And my grandvathers dug'en and dagger And a Peacocks veather in my capp Then oh how I'ch shall swagger.

Nay tak thee a lockrum napkin son, To wipe thy snotty nose, T's noe matter vor that, chill snort it out, And vlurt it athart my cloths: Ods, bodikins nay fy away, I prethee son do not so: Be mannerly son till thou canst tell, Whether sheele ha' thee or noe,

But zirrah Mother harke a while Whoes that that comes so near? Tis Ione Grumball, hold thy peace, For feare that she doe heare. Nay on't be she, chill dresse my words In zuch a scholards grace, But virst of all chall take my honds, And lay them athwart her vace.

Good morrow my honey my sugger-candy, My litle pretty mouse, Cha hopes thy vather and mother be well, At home at thine own house. I'ch am zhame vac't to show my mind, Cham zure thou knowst my arrant: Zum zen, Jug, that I mun a thee. At leasure Sir I warrant.

You must (Sir Clowne) is for the King, And not for such a mome, You might have said, by leave faire maid. And let your (must) alone. Ich am noe more nor clowne thats vlat, Cham in my zunday parrell, I'ch came vor love and I pray so tak't, Che hopes che will not quarrell.

O Robbin dost thou love me so well? I vaith, abommination, Why then you should have fram'd your words Into a finer fashion. Vine vashions and vine speeches too As schollards volks con utter, Chad wrather speak but twa words plaine Thon haulfe a score and stutter.

Chave land, chave houss, chave twa va•…•… beasts, Thats better thon vine speeches; T's a signe that Fortune favours fooles She lets them have such riches.

Hark how she comes upon mee now, I'd wish it be a good zine, He that will steale any wit from thee Had need to rise betime.