Poor Robin's jests: or, The compleat jester Being a collection of several jests not heretofore published. Now newly composed and written by that well-known gentleman, Poor Robin, knight of the burnt island, and well-willer to the mathematicks. Together with the true and lively effigies of the said author. Licensed Feb. 2. 1666. Roger L'Estrange.

Poor Robin on himself.

LAstly, for to bring up the Rear In my own person I appear, To make it known unto the world What falshoods have on me been hurl'd: One says I'm this, another that, And most do prate they know not what: For like to Geese in mud that paddle, Each broods his Eggs, and all prove addle. One says that I a Parson am, He heard me Preach, and knows my name; And if that lyes be true, then he Has hit the truth assuredly;

But if that it be otherwise, Then truth is truth, and he tells lyes. Another in me a Lawyer sees, That in false case I ne'er took fees; But sure the mans in's judgement's blind, For why, such Lawyers few can finde. Another doth affirm me for A Doctor, or a Quacksalver, (Or if you will a Mountebank, Where Jack Pudding on Stage is crank) And that I do cure each disease, Lost Maiden-heads, or what you please: But were I Doctor, I'd be trying To cure that party of his lying. Another says it is a Knight Poor Robin's Almanack does write: Another says it is a Squire; And I say each of them's a lyar. One did report I was a Vulcan; Because (they say) I love a full Can: Another in his words did vary, Said I was an Apothecary. A third, whose brains were something adler, Aver'd for truth I was a Sadler. A fourth hath an Opinion newer, That I love Beer, and am a Brewer: But he had been a truer hinter, That I love Wine, and am a Vintner:

For though in trade from truth they vary, I must confess I love Canary. Now I have told you what I am not, But what I am, to tell I cannot; For he who can himself conjecture, Is wiser then our late Protector, Who had forgot he was a Brewer, And could above him none indure: Nor think I he could prophecy, When dead, his head should mount so high; Or that his Trunk with two on's fellows Should buried be under the Gallows. But they who do desire to know me, If they such love or kindness owe me, Come to Limehouse neer to Dicks-shore, A mile from Aldgate, if not more; Neer unto Signe of the White Lyon, Hard by's a Shop, if you cast eye on: •• may be found without all doubt, Always within, if not gone out. There do I sit some certain hours, Contemplating the starry powers: And from that place as may be guest, Brought up Will Summers and the rest Brom Elyzium, or from Limbo, To make Verse like rime in Crambo, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 commendation of this Book, As you may read, if there you look.

Now I imagine in all reason I've writ enough at this same season: And those who like not this Epistle, Lay the book down, and go whilstle.

P.R.

WRitten at Lime-house neer Dick•• shore,The day o'th' month, five and a score:The month April, th' hour Eleven,Year Sixteen Hundred Sixty Seven.