An antidote against melancholy: made up in pills. Compounded of witty ballads, jovial songs, and merry catches.

The SECOND PART. Here followeth Merry SONGS and CATCHES.

The Tobacco-Takers Song.

TObacco is my Musick, From ••idlers I absent me, For I have a Case that yields a brace Of Pipes that do content me. Still do I cry, Fill a Pipe, Fill a Pipe of the best Boy, Fill Boy never fail me; With Fire and Smoak, Still do I choak The Man that sits near me.

If any bids me leave it, Or wish me to forsake it, Tell him from me, what e're he be, That in snuff I do take it. Still do I cry, Fill, &c.

We need not the Physician, We scorn your Medicine-Makers, We hate your Pills for no poyson kills The true Tobacco-Takers. Still do I cry, Fill, &c.

My wife I fear is angry, I shall be shent if Nell come; Boy what's to pay? for I must away. Ten Pipes Sir, and you'r welcome. Still da I cry, Fill, &c.

Tobacco makes me Valiant, From this our wives would wean us, But 'tis not she shall conquer me, For Mars did conquer Venus. Still do I cry, Fill a Pipe, Fill a Pipe of the best Boy, Fill Boy, never fail me; With Fire and Smoak Still do I Choak The Man that sits near me.

The Coblers Song.

OH the Jovial Coblers! who lives merry lives, They have all things at command except it be our wives; How so ere we use the Body, Yet still we mend the Soul, And sing and drink and merrily trowl the Bowl.

There's nere a Trade in Europe that can without us stand, For we repair and set upright all things we take in hand; We help all womens tripping, And such as tread awry, And sing and drink, and still we are a dry.

We brissel with the proudest, be all in all with friends; No Lawyer in this Kingdome brings things to shorter ends: Although we are all in Pitch, At night we make all well, And sing and drink and merry Tales we tell.

There was many Lords and Princes, the Gentle-craft did use, Who with content there time they spent in making Ladys shoos; Yet they themselves translated were, When to that Trade they fell, To sing and drink and trowl the Pitcher well.

There's not a better Crafts-man in all the Common wealth, For though our Fingers be all Pitch we never live by stealth; But what we get all day, boys, At night we freely-spend, And sing and drink, and make a Jovial end.

The Needy-man's Song.

A Way with this Cash, 'twill make us all mad, The happiest are they that ne're mony had; The Pocket that's full proves the owner a Gull, No Niggard so great, or apter to cheat, A Fob that is lank makes the owner Frank, I tell thee, my Friend, his loves without end. (Cho.) Oh he never can be Too Frolick and Free, No sweeter Estate Then the Needy mans fate.

When mony's a stranger, the man's cut of danger, From whores and from wine he's kept within line, Hee smells to no Barrels, nor broaches no Quarrels, From Millions of Mocks and as many knocks, He saveth him self, by scorning of pelf; He wears out no shooes in hunting for News. (Cho) Oh he never can be Too Frolick, &c.

He cheateth no Heires, nor Shoulder-men fears, Takes care for no Rent, forgets what was lent, Remembers not what this toy cost or that, He Signeth no Bill nor maketh no will; Away all is hurl'd, he treads down the World, And all that has sums, he counts them b••t scums. (Cho.) Oh he never can be Too Frolick and Free, No sweeter Estate Then the Needy mans fate.

The Pedlers Song.

FRom the fair Lavinion Shore I your Markets come to store, Muse not though so far I dwell And my wares come here to sell: Such is the secret hunger of Gold, Then come to my Pack, While I cry, What d'ye lack, What d,ye buy? for here it is to be sold.

I have Beauty, Honour, Grace, Fortune Favour, Time and Place; And what else thou would'st request, Even the thing thou likest best: First let me have but a touch of thy Gold, Then come to me Lad Thou shal't have what thy Dad Never gave; for here it is to be sold.

Madam, come see what you lack, Here's Complexion in my pack; White and Red you may have in this place To hide your old ill wrinkled face. First let me have but a touch of thy Gold, Then thou shal't seem Like a Wench of fifteen, Although you be Threescore year old.

The Cut-Purse Song.

I Keep my Horse, I keep my Whore, I take no Rent, yet am not poor; I travel all the Land about, And yet was born to ne're a foot.

With Partridge plump and Wodcock fine I often do at midnight Dine; And if my Whore be not in case, My Hostess Daughter takes her place.

The Maids sit up and take their turns, If I stay long the Tapster mourns; The Cook maid has no mind to sin, Though tempted by the Chamberlin.

But if I knock, O how they brussel! The Ostler yauns, the Gueldings gusses; If the Maid but sleep, O how they Curse her! And all this comes, of Deliver your Purse; Sir.

The Hay-makers Song.

THe Morning doth wast, To the Medows let's hast, For the Sun doth with Glory shine on them; The Maidens must Rake Whilst the Hay-cocks we make, Then merrily Tumble upon them.

The envy of Court Ne're aimes at our sport, For we live both honestly and meanly; Their Ladies are Fine But to Venus encline, And our Lasses are harmless and cleanly,

Then let us advance Our selves in a Dance, And afterwards fall to our labour; No Measure so meet, Nor Musick so Sweet To us, as a Pipe and a Tabor.

The Scholar's Song,

WHat Creatures on Earth Can boast freer Mirth, Less envy'd and loved than we; Though Learning grow poor, We scorn to implore A Gift but what's noble and free.

Our freedom of mind Cannot be confin'd, VVith Riches we're inwardly blest; Nor Death, nor the Grave Our worths can deprave, Nor malice our Ashes molest.

VVhen such Moles as you Your own Earth shall mue, And VVorms shall your memory eat; Our names being read Shall strike envy dead, And Ages our VVorths shall repeat.

The Beggers Song.

CAst your Caps and cares away This is the Beggers Holy day; At the Crowning of our King Thus we ever Dance and Sing.

In the world look out and see VVhere is so happy a King as he; VVhere's those people live so free, And so merry as do we?

Be it peace or be it war, Here at Liberty we are, And enjoy our ease and rest, To the Field we are not prest.

Nor are call'd into the Town To be troubled with a Gown, Hang all Offices we cry And your Magistrate defie.

VVhen the Subsides are increast VVe are not a Penny ceast, Nor will any go to Law VVith a Begger for a straw. All which happiness be brags He doth owe unto his Rags.

Second Part.

From hunger and cold who liveth more free, And who so richly clothed as we; Our Bellies are full and our flesh it is warm, And against Pride our Rags is a charm. Enough is a Feast and for to Morrow, ••et Rich-men take Care, we feel no Sorrow,

The Tavern Song

THe Gentry to the Kings-head, The Nobles to the Crown, The Knight unto the Golden-Fleece, And at the Plow the Clown.

The Churchman to the Miter, The Shepherd to the Star, The subtle Gardner to the Rose, And at th' Drum the man of War.

To the Feathers Ladies go, the Globe The Seaman do not scorn, The Usurer to the Devil, And the Citizen to the Horn.

The Huntsman to the White-hart, To the Ship the Merchants go; But those that do the Muses love, To the Swan call'd River Poe.

The Banquerout to the Worlds end, The Fool to the Fortune hie, Unto the Mouth the Oyster wife, The Fidler to the Pye.

The Punck unto the Cockatrice, The Drunkard to the Vine, The Begger to the Bush, And with Duke Humphry to Dine.

The Healths.

HEre's a Health to the merry old Sinner In a glass of strong Aquavitae, That for a Crown and a Dinner Will get you a wench will delight you.

Because that you are not for Ale, Here's a Health to a Girle in strong Beer, Although she (like it) be stale, She may happen to cost you dear.

Here's a Health in Ale to our Dear That latley hath serv'd in the Kitchin, A bouncing Wastcoateer, A remedy for the Itching.

Here's a Health to the Earls fine Daughter In Renish with Lemon and Sugar Who (with this well ballanc'd) will after Give liberty to you for to hug her.

Un••o the Green sickness Maid Here's a Health in sparkling white, Though yet she be never staid, She may alter her mind e're night.

Unto the new married wife Here's a Health in neat Clarret, Though her Spouse lead a jealous life, And her tongue out prattles a Parrot.

To the Jovial Widdow at last A Health wee'l drink in Sack, Her constitutions in hast, You may quickly guess what she does lack.

Now you have so freely drank Their Healths and merrily round, Each of you may go to his Punck, They are yours a Mite to a pound.

But now I've thought better on't, Y'ad best to leave Drinking and Whoring, For virtue hereafter will vaunt, When vice shall receive a great scoring.

A Glee to Bacchus.

BAcchus I, acchus fill our brains As well as Bowles with sprightly strains.

Let Souldiers fight for pay and praise, And money be the Misers wish, Poor Scholars study all their daves, And Gluttons glory in their dish. 'Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad souls, Therefore give me the chearing bowles.

Let Minions marshal in their hair, And in a Lovers Lock delight, And artificial Colours were, We have the Native red and white. 'Tis Wine, pure Wine, &c.

Your Pheasant pout, and culver Salmon, And how to please your pallets think, Give us a salt West Phala-Gamon, Not meat to eat, but meat to drink. 'Tis Wine, pure Wine, &c.

It makes the backward spirits brave, That Lively, that before was dull; Those grow good Fellows that are grave, And kindness flows from cups brim full. 'Tis Wine, pure Wine, &c.

Some have the Tissick, some have Rheume, Some have the Palsey, some the Gout; Some swell with fat, and some consume, But they are found that drink all out. 'Tis Wine, pure Wine, &c.

Some men want Youth, and some want health, Some want a Wife, and some a Punck; Some men want wit, and some want wealth, But he wants nothing that is drunk. 'Tis Wine, pure Wine, &c.

Bacchus I, acchus fill our Brains As well as Bowles with sprightly strains.

A Glee to Bacchus.

TO Bacchus we to Bacchus sing, VVith VVine and Mirth wee'l conjure him.

By his Mothers Eye, And her Fathers Thigh, By his God brought to Light, And his too glorious Sight, By Juno's deceit, And by thy sad retreat, Appear appear appear in Bottles here.

By Ariadnes wrongs, And the false youngs harms, By the Rock in his breast, And her tears sore opprest, By the Beauty she fled, And the pleasures of a bed, Appear appear appear in Bottles here.

By this purple wine Thus pour'd on thy shrine, And by this Beer Glass, To the next kind Lass, By a Girle twice nine That will clasp like a Vine. Appear appear appear in Bottles here.

By the men thou hast won, And the women undone, By the Friend-ship thou hast made, And the Secrets betraid, By the power over sorrow, Thus charm'd till to morrow, Appear appear appear in Bottles here.

ON A Pint of SACK.

OLd Poets H'pocrin admire, And pray to water to inspire Their wit and Muse with heavenly fire; Had they this Heav'nly Fountain seen, Sack both their Well and Muse had been, And this Pint-Pot their Hipocrin.

Had they truly discovered it They had (like me) thought it unfit To pray to water for their wit; And had ador'd Sack as divine, And made a Poet God of Wine, And this Pint-pot had been a shrine.

Sack unto them had been in stead Of Nectar, and their heav'nly bread, And ev'ry Boy a Ganimed; Or had they made a God of it, Or stil'd it patron of their wit, The Pot had been a Temple fit.

Well then Companions is't not fit Since to this Jemme we owe our wit, That we should praise the Cabinet, And drink a health to this divine, And bounteous pallace of our VVine: Die he with thirst that doth repine.

In the Praise of WINE.

TIs VVine that inspires, And quencheth Loves fires, Teaches fools how to rule a State; Maids ne're did approve it, Because those that do love it, Despise and laugh at their hate.

The drinkers of beer Did ne're yet appear In matters of any weight; 'Tis he whose designe Is quickn'd by wine That raises things to their height.

VVe then should it prize For never black eyes Made wounds which this could not heal; VVho then doth refuse To drink of this Juice, Is a foe to the Common-weal.

A Glee in praise of Sack.

Verse.

SAck is the Prince of Wines, The Quintessence of Liquor, The Brain it Purges and Refines, And makes the Wit the quicker.

Chorus.

Then let us laugh, let us sing and quaff, Let us toss the Pot and be merry; Let us all bear a part, to drink quart after quart Of this same delicate Sherry.

Verse.

Should Jove come down to men And tast this Sack, he'd think, Nay swear by Styx 'twere better than The Wine the Gods do drink.

Chorus.

Then let us laugh, let us sing and quaff, Let us toss the Pot and be merry; Let us all bare a part, to drink quart after quart Of this same delicate Sherry.

Verse.

If a man have but this, He shall no Musick lack; No Musick to a Sack But is, Or to a But of Sack.

Chorus.

Then let us laugh, let us sing and quaff, Let us toss the Pot and be merry; Let us all bear a part, to drink quart after quart Of this same delicate Sherry.

A Song, Forsaken Phillis, her Lamentation.

To a choice New Tune.

MY Lodging is on the cold Ground, And very hard is my Fare; But that which troubles me most is The unkindness of my Dear: Yet still I cry O turn Love, And I prethee Love turn to me; For thou art the man that I long for, And alack what remedie!

I'le Crown thee with Garlands of Straw then, And I'le Marry thee with a Rush Ring; My frozen hopes shall thaw then, And merrily we will sing, O turn to me my dear Love, And I prethee Love turn to me; For thou art the man that alone can'st Procure my libertie.

But if thou wilt harden thy Heart still, And be deaf to my pitiful moan, Then I must endure the smart still, And tumble in straw alone: Yet still I cry O turn Love, And I prethee Love turn to me; For thou art the man that alone art The cause of my miserie.

On a Cold Chyne of BEEF.

BRing out the Old Chyne, the Cold Chyne to me And how Ile charge him come and see: Brawn tusked, Brawn well sowst and fine VVith a precious cup of Muscadine: Chorus How shall I sing, how shall I look, Chorus In honour of the Master-Cook.

The Pig shall turn round and answer me, Canst thou spare me a shoulder, a wy, a wy; The Duck, Goose and Capon, good fellows all three Shall dance thee an antick so shall the Turkey: But O! the cold Chyne, the cold Chyne for me▪ Chorus How shall I sing, how shall I look, Chorus In honour of the Master-Cook.

VVith brewis Ile noynt thee from head toth heel Shall make thee run nimble then the new oyl'd wheel, With Pye-crust wee'l make thee The eighth wise man to be; But O! the cold Chyne, the cold Chyne for me: Chorus How shall I sing, how shall I look, Chorus In honour of the Master-Cook.

On a Chine of BEEF.

A Chine of Beef, God save us all! Far longer than the Butchers Stall, And sturdier than the City wall; For this held out untill the foe By dint of Blade, and potent blow Fell in Pell-mell, that did not so.

VVith Somachs sharper than their Knives They lay'd about them for their lives; VVell East-Cheape men beware your VVives: Inraged weapons storm'd it round Each wreaking from an open wound, That in its own Gravy it seem'd drown'd.

Magnanimous Flesh! that did not fall At first assault or second mall, But a third time defaist them all; VVhat strength may fates decrees revoke? It was ordain'd this should be broke, Alass! in time the sturdy Oake.

VVhat goodly Ruines did appear, VVhat Bulwarks, Spondals are there here, VVhat Palizado Ribs are there; The bold monument stearn Death defies, Inscribed thus to mirth, here lies A Trophey, and a Sacrifice.

Councel to a Batchellor.

HE that Marries a merry Lass He has most cause to be sad, For let her go free in her merry tricks, She'l work his patience mad.

But he that Marries a Scold a Scold He has most cause to be merry, For when she is in her fits, he may cherrish his wits With Singing hey down a derry.

He that Weds a Roring Girle That will both scratch and fight, Though he study all day to make her away, Will be glad to please her at night.

But he that Marries a sullen wench, Which scarce will speak at all, Her doggedness more than a Scold or a Whore Will penetrate his Gall.

He that Marries with a Turtle-Dove That has no spleen about her, Shall wast so much life in love of his wife, He had better be without her.

Advice to a Friend upon his Marriage.

TO Friend and to Foe, to all that I know That to Marriage Estate do prepare, Remember your dayes in several wayes Are troubled with sorrow and care: For he that doth look in the Married mans book And read but his Items all over, Shall find them to come, at length to a sum Which shall empty Purse, Pocket and Coffer.

In the pastimes of love, when their labours do prove, And the fruit beginneth to kick, For this and for that, and I know not for what, The woman must have, or be sick: There's Item set down for a loos-bodyed Gown, In her longings you must not deceive her; For a Bodkin a Ring, or the other fine thing, For a Whisk, a Scarf or a Beaver.

Deliver'd and well, who is't cannot tell Thus while the Child lyes at Nipple, There's Item for Wine, and Gossips so fine, And Sugar to sweeten their Tipple: There's Item I hope for Water and Sope, There's Item for Fire and Candle, For better for worse, There's Item for Nurse The Baby to dress and to dandle.

When swadled in lap, There's Item for Pap, And Item for Pot, Pan and Ladle; A Courel with Bells, which custom compels, And Item ten Groats for a Cradle: With twenty odd knacks which the little one lacks, And thus doth thy pleasure bewray thee: But this is the sport in Country and Court, Then let not these pastimes betray thee.

The Married mans Diet.

Twelve sorts of Meats my Wife provides, And bates me not a Dish; Of which Four Flesh, Four Fruit there are, The other Four of Fish.

For the first Course she serves me in Four Birds that dainties are, The First a Quaile, the next a Raile, A Bittern, and a Jar.

My Appetite being cloy'd with these, With Fish she makes it sharp, And brings me next a Lump, 2 Pout, A Gudgeon 2nd a Carp.

The Second Course is of Fruit well serv'd, Fitting well the Season, A Medler, and a Hartichoak, A Crab, and a small Reison.

What's he that having such a Wife That on her would not doat, Who daily does provide such Fare VVhich costs him ne're a Groat?

A Song, Caelia's Complaint.

POor Caelia once was very fair, A quick bewitching eye she had; Most neatly look'd her brayded Hair, Her dainty Cheeks would make you mad: Upon her Lips did all the Graces play, And on her Breast ten thousand Cupids lay.

Then many a doting Lover came From Seventeen till Twenty one, Each told her of his mighty flame, But she, Forsooth, affected none: One was not Handsome, th'other was not Fine, This of Tobacco smelt and that of wine.

But t'ther day it was my fate To walk along that way alone, I saw no Coaob before her Gate, But at her Dore I heard her Moan; She dropt a Tear, and Sighing seem'd to say, Young Ladies, Marry, Marry while you may.

A Song, The Mad Lover.

HE that will court a wench that is Coy, That is Proud, that is Peevish and Antick; Let him be as careless to sport and to toy, And as wilde as she can be frantick: Flatter her and slight her, Laugh at her and spight her, Rayl and commend her again; 'Tis the way to woe her, If you mean to do her; Such Girles love such men.

He that will court a wench that is milde, And that is sweet of behaviour, L••t him gently woe her, And not roughly come to her, 'Tis the way to win her Favour: Give her Kisses plenty, She'l take them were they twenty, Stroak her and Kiss her again; 'Tis the way to woe her, If you mean to do her, Soft Girles love milde men.

He that will court a wench that is mad, That will squeak and cry out if you hand her, Let him frisk and fling, and make the house to ring, 'Tis the only way to command her: Take her up and towze her, Give her Kisses and rouse her, Rayl and commend her again, 'Tis the way to woe her, If you mean to do her, Such Girles love wilde men.

A Song, An Old Knight to a Young Lad••

MAdam, your Beauty (I confess) May our young Gallants wound or bless, But cannot warm my frozen Heart, Not capable of Joy or smart: Cause neither Wit, nor Looks, nor Kindness can Make young a Super-annu-ated man.

Those sparks that every Minute fly From your bright Eyes, do falling dye; Not kindle flames as heretofore, Because old I can Love no more: Beauty on wither'd hearts no Trophy gains, For Tynder over-us'd, no fire retains.

If you'l indure to be admir'd By an Old Dotard new Inspir'd, You may enjoy the Quinteslence Of my past loves without Expence: For I can wait, and prate, I thank my Fate I can do all, but no new Fire Create.

A Song, Colin and his Love.

MOst early in a Morning fair A Shepherd Sang this Solemn Ayr, VVhere his Dear Love did use to lye, And thus Lamenting he did Cry!

VVas ever one in love as I, That am so Sick yet cannot dye? My Heart is broak, my delight is gone, Yet I'le have my Love, or I'le have none.

My Father hath done me much wrong To keep me from my Love so long, But unto him I'le have it known That I'le hav•• my Love, or I'le have none.

To some far Country I will goe, Confine my self to care and woe; And there I'le sit and make my moan, For I'le have my Love, or I'le have none,

Set Forty Thousand on a row My love will make the fairest show; And though from me she's fled and gone, Yet I'le have my Love, or I'le have none.

I gave my Love a pair of Shoon As black as Jet, her shoo-strings blew; She put um on and away she's Flown, Yet I'le have my Love, or I'le have none.

A Song, A Lady to a young Courtier.

LOve thee, Good sooth, not I; I've some what else to do: Alas! you must go learn to talk, Before you learn to VVoe; Nay fie, stand off, go to go too.

Before you'r in the Fashion, And newly come to Court, D'ye think your Cloths are Orators T' invite us to the sport, Ha ha! who will not jeer you for't?

Ne're look so sweetly, Youth, Nor Fiddle with your Band, VVe know you trim your borrow'd Curls To shew your pretty Hand, But 'tis too young for to command.

Go practice how to Jeer, And think each word a Jest; That's the Courts wit, Alas! you are out To think when finely drest You please me, or the Ladies best.

And why so confident, Because that lately we Have brought another lofty word Unto our Pedegree; Your inside seems the worse to me.

Mark how Sir Whacham Fools, I marry there's a wit? Who cares not what he sayes or swears, So Ladies laugh at it: Who can deny such Blades a bit.

The Bashful Lover. A Song in the Play of the Mock Astrologer.

CAlm was the Evening and clear was the skie, And the sweet budding flowers did spring, When all alone went Amintor and I To hear the sweet Nightingale sing: I sate and he lay'd him down by me, And scarely his breath he could draw, But when with a fear he began to come near, He was dasht with a ha ha ha ba ha ha, &c.

He blusht to himself, and laid still a while, 'Twas his modesty curb'd his desire; But strait I convinc'd all his fears with a smile, And added new flames to his fire: Ah! Silvia, said, he your are cruel To keep your poor lover in awe, Then once more he prest with his hand to my brest, But wast dasht with a ha ha ha ha ha ha, &c.

I knew 'twas his passion that caused his fear, And therefore I pittied his case; I whisper'd him softly, there's no body near, And lay'd my Cheek close to his Face: But as he grew bolder and bolder A Shepherd came by us and saw, And strait as our bliss, we began with a Kiss, He laughs out with a ha ha ha ha ha ha, &c.

A Song, Fredome in Love.

PLeasure, Beauty, Youth attend ve, Love and melting thoughts befriend ye; While the spring of Nature lasteth Use your time e're Winter hasteth.

Active blood and free delight Place and privacy invite, Oh be kind as you are fair! Lose no advantage got for Air.

She is cruel that denies it, Stealth of sport in love supplies it; Bounty best appears in granting, Else the eares of love are wanting.

There's the sweet exchange of bliss, Where ach whisper proves a Kiss; In the gains are felt no pains, For still in all the loser gains.

A Song, Advice to Cloris.

CLoris forbear a while, do not o're Joy me, Urge not another Smile, lest you destroy me; That Beauty pleaseth most, and is best taken, Which soon is won, soon lost, Kind, yet forsaken: I love a coming Lady, 'tis true I doe, But now and then I'de have her scornful too.

O'recloud those eyes of thine, bo-peep thy Features, Warm with an April shine, scorch not thy Creatures; Still to display thy ware, still to be fooling, Argues how rude you are in Cupid's schooling: Disdain begets a smile, scorn draws us nigh, 'Tis cause I would and cannot, makes me try.

Cloris I'de have thee wise, when Gallants view thee, And Court, do thou despise, fly those persue thee; Fasts move an Appetite, makes hunger greater, Whose stinted of delight falls to't the better: Be coy and kind by turns, be smoth and rough, And buckle now and then, and that's enough.

A Song, Counsel to a Maid.

CLoris when e're you do intend To venture on a bosom Friend, Be sure you know your servant well, Before your libertie you sell.

For Loves a Feaver in young and old, That's sometimes hot and sometimes cold; And men you know when e're they please Can soon be sick of this disease.

Then wisely chuse a freind that may Last for an Age, not for a day; Who loves thee not for Lip or Eye, But from a Mutual Sympathie.

To such a friend thy Heart engage, For he will court thee in old Age; And kiss thy shallow wrinkled brow With as much joy as he doth now.

A Song, The doubtful lover Resolv'd.

FAin would I love but that I fear, I quickly should the willow wear; Fain would I marry, but men say When love is try'd he will away: Then tell me Love what I shall do To cure these fears when e're I woe.

The fair one she's a mark to all, The Brown one each doth lovely call, The Black a Pearl in fair-mens eyes, The rest will stoop to any prize: Then tell me Love what I shall do To cure these fears when e're I woe.

Reply.

Go Lover, know it is not I That wound with fear or jealousie; Nor do men feel those smarts Until they have confin'd their hearts: Then if you'l cure your fears, you shall Love neither Fair, Black, Brown, but All.

A Song, The Merry Lover.

I Love thee for thy Fickleness And great inconstancie; For had'st thou been a constant Lass, Then thon had'st ne're lov'd me.

I love thee for thy Wantonness And for thy drollerie; For if thou had'st not lov'd to sport, Then thou had'st ne're lov'd me.

I Love thee for thy Poverty And for thy want of Coin; For if thou had'st been worth a groat Then thou had'st ne're been mine.

I Love thee for thy Uglyness And for thy Foolerie, For if thou hadst been fair or wise Then thou had'st ne're lov'd me.

Then let me have thy Heart a while, And thou shalt have my Money, I'le part with all the wealth I have T' enjoy a lass so Bonny.

A Song, Liberty in Love.

HOw happy art thou and I That never knew how to love, There's no such blessings here beneath, What e're there is above: 'Tis libertie, 'tis libertie That every wiseman loves.

Out out upon those Eyes That think to Murder me, And he's an asse believes her fair That is not kind and free: There's nothing sweet, there's nothing sweet To man but Libertie.

I'e tye my Heart to none, Nor yet confine mine eyes, But I will play my game so well I'le never want a prize: 'Tis libertie, 'tis libertie Has made me now thus wise.

A Song, A Clown to his Mistress.

EXcellent Mistress! fairer then the Moon, Then scowred Peter or the silver Spoon; Brighter then Venus, or the Morning Star, Dainty fine Mistress by my troth you are. Far excelling all other Nimphs, As Lobsters, Crawfish or Crawfish Shrimps. The Glow-worm is most bright, Your Eyes do shine more clearly, As I hope to be Knighted I love thee most dearly.

On a Wife.

HEr for a Mistress fain would I enjoy Who hangs the Lip, and pouts at every toy; Speaks like a wag, is bold, dare boldly stand, And bare Loves Scepter in a constant hand; Laughs loud, and for one blow will give me three, And when she's stabb'd will fall a kissing me: If she be Modest Wise, and chast of Life, Hang her, she's good for nought but for a Wife.

On Tobacco.

MUch Meat do serve the Glutton To feed upon like Swine, But he's a happy man indeed That on an Hearb can Dine: His Trencher needs no Napkin His Fingers for to wipe; He keeps a Kitchin in his box, His roast-meat in a Pipe.

Upon a Welshman.

A Man of Wales a little before ••aster Ran on his Hostess score for Cheese a Teaster. His Hostess chalkt it up behind the dore, And said, for Cheese (good Sir) Come pay the score: Cod's Pluternails (quoth he) what meaneth these? What dost thou think her knows not Chalk from Cheese?

A Song, The Jovial Tinker.

HE that a Tinker, a Tinker will be, Let him leave other Loves and come listen to me, Though he Travels all the Day Yet he comes home still at Night, And dallies with his Doxie, And dreams of Delight.

His Pot and his Tost in the morning he takes, And all the day long good musick he makes; He wanders up and down to Wakes and to Faires, And casts his Cap at the Court, and its cares: When to the Town the Tinker doth come, Oh how the wanton wenches run!

Some bring him Basons, some bring him Bowles, All wenches pray him to stop up their holes; Tink goes the Hammar, the Skellet and the Skummer: Come bring me the Copper Kettle For the Tinker the Tinker, the merry merry Tinker, Oh he is the man of mettle!

Ho Maids, Fair maids, sweet wenches come away, Let me here no longer stay, But bring me the Kettle, the Trug and the Tray, For here comes the Tinker with his Tools: This Trade was never taught in Schools, No nor his Art, as you may see, The Cobler mends not more then he.

CATCHES.

NOw that the Spring hath fill'd our Veins With kind and active fire, And made green Liveries for the Plaines, And every Grove a Quire.

Sing we this Song with mirth and merry glee, And Bacchus crown the Bowl, And here's to thee, and thou to me, And every thirsty soul.

Shear sheep that have them, cry we still But see that none escape To take of his Sherry, that makes us so merry And plump as the lusty Grape.

2 Catch.

Your merry Peets old Boys Of Aganippes Well, Full many tales have told Boys, Whose liquor doth excel, And how that place was haunted By those that love good VVine; VVho tippled there and chaunted Among the Muses Nine. VVhere still they cry'd Drink clear Boys, And you shall quickly know it, That 'tis not lowzy Beer Boys But Wine that makes a Poet.

3 Catch.

Call George again boy, call George again, And for the love of Bacchus call George again. George is a good boy, and draws us good wine, Or fill us more Clarret our wit to refine; George is a brave Lad, and an honest man, If you will him know, he dwells at the Swan,

4 Catch.

'Mongst all the precious Juices Afforded for our uses, There's none to be compar'd with Sack; For the body or the mind No such Physick you shall find, Therefore boy see we do not lack.

VVould'st thou hit a lofty strain, VVith this Liquor warm thy brain, And thou Swain shalt sing as sweet as Sidney; Or would'st thou laugh and be fat, There's not any like to that To make Jack Sprat a man of Kidney.

It is the Soul of mirth To poor Mortals upon Earth, It would make a coward bold as Hector, Nay I wager durst a Peece, That those merry Gods of Greece Drank old Sack and Nectar.

5 Catch.

Come come away to the Tavern I say, For now at home 'tis washing day; Leave your prittle prattle, and fill us a pottle, You are not so wise as Aristotle: Drawer come away, let's make it Holy-day, Anon, Anon, Anon Sir, what is't you say.

6 Catch.

There was an old man at Waltham cross, Who merrily sung when he liv'd by the loss; Hey tro-ly loly loly lo.

He never was heard to sigh a hey ho, But he sent it out with a Hey troly loly lo.

He chear'd up his heart When his goods went to wrack With a hem, boy, Hem! And a cup of old Sack; Sing hey troly loly lo.

7 Catch.

Come let us cast Dice who shall drink, Mine is twelve and his fice sink, Six and Four is thine, and he threw Nine, Come away Sink tray, Size ace fair play; Quator duce is your throw Sir, Quator ace, they run low Sir; Two Duces I see, Duce ace is but three: Oh were is the wine, come fill up his glass, For here is the man has thrown Ams ace.

8 Catch.

She that will eat her breakfast in her bed, And spend the morn in dressing of her head, And sit at dinner like a Maiden-Bride, And nothing do all day, but talk of pride; Jove of his mercy may do much to save her, But what a case is he in that shall have her!

9 Catch.

Never let a man take heavily the clamor of his wife, But be rul'd by me, and lead a merry life; But let her have her will in every thing, If she scolds then laugh and sing, Hey derry derry ding.

10 Catch.

Let's cast away care and merrily sing, There is a time for every thing; He that plays at work, and works at his play, Neither keeps VVorking, nor yet Holi-day: Set business aside, and let us be merry, And drown our dull thoughts in Canary and Sherry.

11 Catch.

Hang sorrow and cast away care, And let us drink up our Sack; They say 'tis good to cherish the blood, And for to strengthen the back: 'Tis Wine that makes the thoughts aspire, And fills the body with heat; Besides 'tis good, if well understood To sit a man for the feat: Then call, and drink up all, The drawer is ready to fill; Pox take care, what need we to spare, My Father has made his Will.

12 Catch.

The Wisemen were but seven, ne're more shall be for me; The Muses were but nine, The worthies three times three; And three merry Boyes, and three merry Boyes are we.

The Vertues were but seven, and three the greater be; The Caesars they were twelve, and the fatal Sisters three; And three merry Girles, and three merry Girles are we.

13 Catch.

Shew a Room, shew a Room, shew a Room, Here's a knot of Good Fellows are come That mean for to be merry With Clarret and with Sherry; Each man to mirth himself disposes, And for the reckoning tell Noses: Give the Red-Nose some White, And the Pale-Nose some Clarret, But the Nose that looks Blew, Give him a Cup of Sack 'twill mend his hew.

14 Catch.

O the wily wily Fox, with his many wily mocks! We'le Earth him, if you'l but follow, And now that we have don't, to conclude this merry hunt, Let us roundly whoop and hollow: Prethee drink, prethee drink, prethee-prethee drink, That the hunters may follow.

15 Cath.

My Lady and her Maid upon a merry pin, They made a match at Farting, who should the Wager win, Jone lights three Candles then, and sets them bolt upright, With the first fart she blew them out, With the next she gave them light: In comes my Lady then, with all her might and main, And blew them out, and in and out, and out and in again.

16 Catch.

Now I am married, Sir John I'le not curse, He joyns us together for better, for worse; But if I were single I tell you plain, I would be advised e're I marri'd again.

17 Catch.

An old house end, an old house end, And many a good fellow wants mony to spend, If thou wilt borrow Come hither to morrow, I dare not part so soon with my friend, But let us be merry, and drink off our Sherry, But to part with my mony I do not Intend; Then a turd in thy Teeth, and an old house end.

18 Catch.

Thou sit'st too long at the Pot Tom Thou sit'st too long at the Pot Tom, Here's thy Pot and my Pot, And my Pot and thy Pot, Then hold thy Nose to the Pot Tom.

Thou studiest Phylosophy Tom, And some time Astrologey Tom; Let's have our Liquor about us Both within and without us; Then hold thy Nose to the Pot Tom.

What humour hath cross'd the now Tom, VVhat humour hath cros'd the now Tom? VVhat Bug-bear doth fright thee From that that delights thee? Then hold thy Nose to the Pot Tom.

VVhat Lawyer is like to thee Tom, Or for to plead against the Pot Tom? A fig for his reading, Except that his pleading Is for to maintain the Pot Tom.

The Pot is the Peace-maker Tom, And the righter of every mans wrong Tom; For when the Law cannot mend it, The Pot it will end it, Then hold thy Nose to the Pot Tom.

Then hold thy Nose to the Pot Tom, And do thy self not so much wrong Tom, C••t not that behind thee, VVhich Bacchus design'd thee; Then hold thy Nose to the Pot Tom,

For Malt that's good for the Maw Tom, It will cure the body in Autumn; The felix quem faciunt I pray thee be patient, Aliena pericula Cautum.

Then hold thy Nose to the Pot Tom, And do thy self not so much wrong Tom; Neither Parson nor Vicar But will take off his Liquor, Then hold thy Nose to the Pot Tom.

19 Catch.

Drink, drink, all you that think To cure your souls of sadness; Take up your Sack, 'tis all you lack, All worldly care is madness. Let Lawyers plead, and and Scholars read, And Sectaries still conjecture, Yet we can be as merry as they With a Cup of Apolle's Nectar.

Let Gluttons feed and Souldiers bleed, And fight for reputation; Physicians are fools, to fill up close stools, And cure men by purgation. Yet we have a way far better then they, VVhich Galen could never conjecture, To cure the head, nay quicken the dead, VVith a cup of Apolle's Nectar.

VVe do forget we are in debt VVhen we with liquor are warmed; VVe dare out-face the Sergeant's Mace And Martial Troops through armed. The Swedish King much Honur did win, And valiant was as Hector; Yet we can be as valiant as he, VVith a cup of Apollo's Nectar.

Let the worlds slave his comfort have And hug his hoards of treasure, Till he and his wish meet both in a dish; So dies a Miser in pleasure. 'Tis not a fat farm our wishes can charm, We scorn this greedy conjecture; 'Tis a health to our friend, to whom we commend This cup of Apollo's Nectar.

The Pipe and the Pot, are our common shot, Wherewith we keep a quarter; Enough for to choak with fire and smoak The great Turk and the Tartar. Our faces red, our Ensignes spread, Apollo is our Protector; To rear up the Scout, to run in and out, And drink up this cup of Nectar.

20 Catch.

There was three Cooks in Colebrook And they fell out with our Cook, And all was for a pudding he took, And from the Cook of Colebrook. There was swash cook, and slash cook, And thy Nose in my Narse Cook, And all was for a pudding he took, And from the cook of Colebrook. Then they fell all upon our Cook, And mumbled him so, that he did look As black as the pudding which that he took, And from the Cook of Colebrook.

21 Catch.

Wilt thou lend my thy Mare to ride a mile? No, she's lame going over a stile: But if thou wilt her to me spare Thou shalt have mony for thy Mare: Oh! say you so, say you so, Mony will make my Mare to go.

22 The Answer.

Your Mare is lame she halts down right, Then shall we not get to London to night: You cry'd ho, ho, mony made her go, But now I well perceive it is not so; You must spur her up and put her to't Though mony will not make her go, your spurs will do't.

23 Catch.

If any so wise is, that Sack he despises, Let him drink his small beer and be sober, VVhilest we drink Sack and sing, as if it were spring, He shall droop like the Trees in October. But be sure over night, if this dog do you bite, You take it henceforth for a warning, Soon as out of your bed, to settle your head Take a hair of his tayle in the Morning: And be not so silly, to follow old Lilly, For there's nothing but Sack that can tune us, Le his Ne-assuescas be put in his cap-case And sing bi-bi-to vinum Jejunus.

24 Catch.

Good Symon how comes it your Nose looks so red, And your Cheeks and lips look so pale, Sure the heat of the Tost, your Nose did so rost, VVhen they were both souc'd in Ale. It showes like the Spire of Pauls steeple on fire, Each Ruby darts forth (such lightning) Flashes VVhile your face looks as dead, as if it were Lead, And covered all over with ashes.

Now to heighten his colour, yet sill his pot fuller And nick it not so with froth, Gra-mercy mine Host, it shall save thee a Toast, Sup Simon, for here is good broth.

25 Catch.

Wilt thou be Fat? I'le tell thee how Thou shalt quickly do the Feat; And that so plump a thing as thou Was never yet made up of meat: Drink off thy Sack, 'twas onely that Made Bacchus and Jack Falstafe, Fat, Fat.

Now every Fat man I advise That scarce can peep out of his eyes, Which being set can hardly rise; Drink of•• his Sack and freely quaff, 'Twill make him lean, but me to laugh To tell him how — 'tis on a staff.

26 Catch.

Of all the brave Birds that ever I see The Owle is the fairest in her degree, For all the day long she sits in a tree, And when the night comes away flies she; To whit, to whow, to whom drinkst thou? Sir Knave to thou; This song is well sung, I make you a vow, And he is a knave that drinketh now. Nose, Nose, Nose, and who gave thee that jolly red Nose? Nutmegs and Cloves, and that gave thee thy jolly red Nose.

27 Catch.

This Ale, my bonny Lads, is as brown as a berry, Then let us be merry here an hour; And drink it e're it's sowre: Here's to thee lad, Come to me lad; Let it come Boy, to my Thumb Boy. Drink it off Sir, 'Tis enough Sir; Fill mine Host Toms Pot and Toast.

28 Catch.

What are we met? come let's see If here's enough to sing this Glee; Look about, count your number, Singing will keep us from crazy slumber; 1, 2, and 3, so many there be that can sing, The rest for wine may ring: Here is Tom, Jack and Harry, Sing away and do not tarry, Merrily now let's sing, carouse and tipple, Here's Bristow Milk, come suck this nipple, There's a fault Sir, never halt Sir, before a cripple.

29 Catch.

Jog on, jog on, the Foot path-way, And merrily hent the stile-a; Your merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a. Your paltry mony bags of Gold, What need have we to stare for, VVhen little or nothing soon is told, And we have the less to care-for:

Cast care away, let sorrow cease, A Fig for Melancholy; Let's laugh and sing, or if you please VVe'l frolick with sweet Dolly.

30 Catch.

VVhat fortune had I poor Maid as I am To be bound in eternal vow, For ever to lye by the side of a Man That would, but know's not how: Oh can there no pity Be in such a City, VVhere Lads anough are to be had!

Unfortunate Girle, that art wed to such woe, Go seek thee a lively Lad, And let the poor that hath nothing to shew Go seek for another as bad: Then call for no pity Thou dwelt in a City, VVhere Lads enough were to be had.

31 Catch.

Fly Boy, Fly Boy, to the Cellars bottom, View well you Quills and bung Sir, Draw wine to preserve the Lungs Sir, Not rascally wine to Rot u'm: If the Quill runs foul, Be a trusty soul, and cane it; For the Health is such An ill drop will much profane it.

32 Catch.

Diogenes was merry in his Tub. And so let us be at our Club; 'Tis mirth that fills the veins with blood, More then either wine, sleep, or Food.

Let each man keep his Heart at ease, No man e're dy'd of that disease; 'Twill alwayes keep thy body in health, Then value it above thy wealth.

'Tis sadness and grief that doth bring Diseases in Autumn and Spring; Then welcome harmless mirth I say, The more we laugh the more we may.

33 Catch.

What if we drink, let no man think There's Treason in the Cup, 'Gainst the King it is not any thing, 'tis a plot To blow our sorrow up.

Ne're charge pure wine with such design, 'Tis too noble, fill the Glass, Let's be free without fear, Loyaltie liveth hear. In vino verita••.

34 Catch.

A Fig for care, why should we spare The Parish is bound to find us, For thou and I and all must dye, And leave the world behind us.

The Clerk shall Sing, the Bells shall Ring And the Old Wives wind us; Sir John shall lay our Boues in Clay, VVhere no body means to find us.

35 Catch.

Had the not care enough, care enough, Care enough of the old man? She wed him, she fed him, And to the bed she led him; For seven long winters she lifted him on: But oh how she negl'd him, negl'd him, Oh how she negl'd him all the night long!

36 Catch.

Here's Health unto his Majesty with 2 Fa la la, &c. Conversion to his Enemies with a Fa la la, &c. And he that will not pledge this Health, I wish him neither wit nor wealth, Nor yet a Rope to hang himself with a Fa la la, &c.

37. Catch.

Tom Sanders is he that draws us good Wine, At Edmunton Town there hangs out his Signe; He carries the Bell for Sack and Terse Clarret, Jack knowes it well and Paul will aver it: For Mathew and will with the rest of the Voken, There's much might be said, But then more must be spoken.

38 Catch.

Ne're trouble thy self at the times nor their turnings, Afflictions run circular and wheel about; Away with thy murmuring and thy heart burnings, VVith the Juyce of the Grape we'l quench the fire out.

Ne're chain nor imprison thy soul up in sorrow, What fails us to day, may be friend us to morrow; Let us scorn our content from others to borrow.

The thirsty Earth Drinks up the Rain, And Drinks and gapes for Drink again; The Plants suck in the Earth, and are With constant drinking fresh and fair; The Sea it self, which one would think Should have but little need of drink, Drinks ten Thousand Rivers up, So fill'd that they o'reflow the Cup.

The busie Sun, and one would guess, By's Drunken fiery Face no less, Drinks up the Sea, and when that's done, The Moon and Stars Drink up the Sun; They Drink and Dance by their one light, They Drink and Revel all the night; Nothing in Nature's sober found, But an eternal health goes round.

(Cho.) Fill up the Bowl and fill it high, Fill all the Glasses here, for why Should every Creature Drink but I? Why man of Morrals, tell me why! Mr. A. Cowley.

40 Catch.

Good Susan be as secret as you can, You know your Master is a jealous man; Though thou and I do mean no hurt or Ill, Yet Men take Women in the worse sens•• still; And fear of Horns more grief in hearts hath bred, Then wearing Horns doth hurt a Cuckolds head.

41 Catch.

Sweet Jane, sweet Jane, I love thee wondrous well; But I'm afraid, thoul't dye a Maid, And so lead Apes in Hell.

For why my Dear, 'Tis pitty it should be so, Thou'dst better then to take a man And keep thee from the foe.

Thou art so pretty and fine, And wondrous handsome too; Then be not coy, let's get a boy, Alass! what should we do.

I see thy Brow, and I know What colour it is below; Then do not Jest, but smile the rest, I fay I know, what I know.

42 Catch.

If wealth could keep a man alive, I'de only study how to thrive; That having got a mighty Mass 'Might bribe the fates to let me pass.

But since we can't prolong our years, Why spend we time in needless grief and fears; For since Dest'nie has decreed us to dye, And all must pass over the Ferry: Hang Riches and Cares, Since we han't many Years, Let's have a short life and a merry.

43 Catch.

Times are changed from bad to worse, Knavery thrives and sills a pace the Purse It was a goodly Golden Age of Old, But now the Age is mad for Gold; Youth and Beauty play at wasters, Is not this a mad world, my Masters?

Couzenage is the praise of wit, Letchery but a merry merry fit, Pride a complement and grace, Beauty an Adul'trate Face; Drunkards now are call'd Boon Wasters, Is not this a mad world, my Masters?

44 Catch.

Bess black as a Charcole, Was found in a dark hole, With Kit, at the Cat and the Fiddle; But what they did there, None safely can swear, Yet Gentlemen Riddle my Riddle.

'Troth I would be loth, Were I put to my oath, To swear Kit with Bess did ingender; Yet it would tempt a man, Bridle all he can, His present wishes to tender.

But it was found at last, E're twelve-months was past, That Cristopher Bess had o're master'd, For betwixt either Thigh He quartered so nigh, She brought him a Jolly brown Bastard.

45 Catch.

A Womans rule should be in such a fashion, Only to guide her houshold, and her passion; And her obedience never out of season, So long as either Husbands lasts or Reason.

Ill fares that hapless Family that showes, A Cock that's silent and a Hen that Crowes; I know not which live most unnatural lives, Obedient Husbands, or Commanding Wives.

46 Catch.

When Wives do hate their Husbands friends, As jealous of some fearless ends, And still and angry look she settles, As if of late she'ad piss'd on Nettles. Ware ho, ware ho, for then of force The Mare will prove the better Horse.

When Women will ever be nice, Foolish, Proud and manly wise; And their wanton humour Itches, To were their Husbands widest Breeches. Ware ho, ware ho, for then of force The Mare will prove the better Horse.

47 Catch.

Then let us be friends, and most friendly agree, The Pimp, the Punck and the Doctor are three; That cannot but thrive when united they be.

The Pimp brings in custom, the Punck she gets treasure, Of which the Physician is sure of his measure, For work that she makes him in sale of her pleasure.

••r which when she wears by Diseases or Pain, ••e Doctor new Vamps, or Upsets her again; ••e Doctor new Vamps or upsets her again.

48 Catch.

A Pox on the Jaylor and on his fat Jole, There's liberty lies in the bottom of th' Bole, A fig for what ever the Rascal can do, Our Dungeon is deep, but out Cups are so too; Then Drink we round in despite of our foes, And make our hard Irons cry clink in the close: Now laugh we and quaff we, untill our rich Noses Grow red, and contest with our chapplets of Roses.

49 Out of Anacreon.

When I tast my Goblet deep, All my cares are rock'd asleep; Then I am Croesus Lord of th' Earth, Singing Odes of Wit and Mirth: And with Ivy Garlands Crown'd, I can kick the Globe round, round. Others Fight, but let me Drink, Boy, my Goblet fill to th' Brink; For when I lay down my Head, Better be Drunk, Dead-drunk, then dead.

FINIS.