VVit and drollery,: joviall poems. Never before printed. / By Sir J.M. Ja:S. Sir W.D. J.D. and other admirable wits.

A match at Cock-fighting.

GOe you same Gallants, you that have the name, And would accounted be cocks of the game That have brave spurs to shew for't and can crow,

And count al dunghil breed that cannot shew vice Such painted plumes as yours, that think no Coy cock-like lust to tread your cockatrice; you be, Though Peacocks Woodkocks Weathercoks If y'aer no fighting cocks y'are not for me. I of two feathered combatants will write; He that to'th life means to express their fight, Must make his Ink their blood which they did spill, And from his dying wings borrow his quill. No sooner was the doubtful people set, The match's made and all that would had bet; But straight the skilful Judges of the play Bring forth their sharpe-heeld warriours, and they Were both in linnen bags, as if 'twas meet, Before their day to have had their winding sheet. With that 'ith pitt they're put, and when they were, Both on their feet the Norfolke Chantdecleer Looks stoutly on his ne're before seen foe, And like a challenger begins to crow, And shake his wings, as that he did display His warlike colours, which were black and gray; Meane while the wairy Wisbitch walks and breaths,

His active body and in fury wreathes His comely crest, and often looking down He whets his angry beake upon the ground. With that they meet, not like that coward breed Of Esope; these can better fight then feed. They scorne the dunghil, tis their onely prize To dig for Pearls in each others eyes; They fought so long that it was hard to know, To'th skilful whether they did fight or no; Had not the blood which died the fatal floor, Borne witnesse of it, yet they fight the more, As that each wound were but a spur to prick Their fury forward, lightning not more quick Nor red then were their eyes; tis hard to know, Whether it was blood or anger made them so. And sure they had been out, had they not stood More safe by being fenced in with blood: But still they fight; But now alas at length, Although their courage be full ••yirde, their strength And blood began to Ebbe, you that have seen A water combate on the Sea between Two angry boyling billowes, how They martch and meet, and dash their curled brow,

Swelling like graves, as though they did in∣tend To intombe each other ere the quarrel end: But when the wind is down, and blustring weather, They are made friends, and sweetly run to∣gether. Me thinks these Champions such, their wind grown low, And they which leapt even now, now scarce can goe. Their wings which lately at each blow they clapt, As if they did applaud themselvs, they flap; And having lost the advantage of the heele, Drunk with each others blood, they onely reele; From both their eyes such drops of blood did fall, As if they wept them for their funeral: And yet they faine would fight, they come so neer, As if they meant into each others eare, To whisper death, & when they cannot rise, They lie and look blowes into each others eyes: But now the Tragick part after the fight, When Norfolke Cock had got the best of it, And Wisbitch lay a dying, so that none Though sober but might venter seven to one

Consuming like a dying Taper all His force, as meaning with that blow to fall, He struggles up, and having taken winde, Venters a blow and strickes the other blind. And now poor Norfolke having lost his eyes, Fights onely guided by Antipathies; With him (alas) the Proverbe holds too true, The blows his eyes were sure his heart must rue: At length by chance, he stumbling on his foe, Not having any strength to deale a blow; He falls upon him with a wounded head, And made the conquerours wings his feather bed: Where lying sicke, his friends were very chary Of him, and fetcht in haste th' Apothecary: But still in vain, his body doth so blister, That its not capable of any glister; Wherefore at last opening his fainting bill, He call'd a Scrivener, and thus made his will.

Inprimis, let it never be forgot, My body freely I bequeath toth th' pot, Decently to be boild, and for it's Tombe, Let it be buried in some hungry Wombe. Item Executor I will have none, But he that on my side laid seven to one: And like a gentleman that he may live, To him, and to my heires my combe I give;

Together with my brains, that all may know That oftentimes his brains do use to crow. Item its my will those, weaker ones, Whose wives complain of them, I give my stones. To him that's dull I do my spurs impart, And to the Coward I bequeath my heart: To Ladies that are light, its my will, My feathers should be given; and for my bill, I'de give to'a Taylor, but its so short, That I'm afraid he rather curse me for't. And to the worthy Doctors, they who meant To give me a glister, let my rumpe be sent: Lastly because I feel my life decay, I yeild, and give to Wisbitch cocke the day.

T. R.