A new Medley, OR, A Messe of All-together.
To the tune of Tarltons Medley.
STrange news is come from Hounslo heath,
That all false Théeues are put to death,
Nell Collins has a stinking breath,
I heard Tom Phillips say:
The Cobler and the Broome-mans wife,
Haue made a match, Ile lay my life,
Come drinke a cup and end all strife,
sweet Kester.
They say that Turnbull-street is cleane
Transform'd, there scant is left a Queane,
Oh neghbour Ralph what doe you meane,
to pawne your shirt for Ale:
This drinking healths makes many sicke,
Nan Wil [...]s has deuis'd a tricke,
To gull her husband, silly Dicke,
the Miller.
Pease-porridge makes our Mall breake winde,
She makes vs thinke that shée is kinde,
Because she speaks to vs behind,
as fréely as before:
The Butler is gone out oth' way,
Cause no man shall drinke here to day,
His Master bids him do't they say,
on purpose.
Will Cooke and Sisse the Dairy maide,
Doe sit together in the shade,
Stealing would be an excellent trade,
and twere not for this hanging:
The Hangman he leaues worke by noone,
Sweet heart goe not away so soone,
A thinke there is a man i'th Moone,
Star-gazer.
There is more cloathes in Birchin-lane
I thinke, than would load Charles his Waine,
King Edward lou'd a gold-smiths Iane,
the best ware in the shop:
The Tanner made the King a Feast,
A Mastiffe dog's a valiant Beast,
He oft thinks most that sayes the least,
old Hobson.
Dido wos a Carthage Quéene,
As I walkt in a Meddow greene,
The fairest Lasse that ere was séene,
that was the flower of Kent:
Looke to your forehead honest friend,
The longest day must haue an end,
Good fortune unto thée, God send,
young Bridegroome.
When as King Henry rul'd this Land,
All things did in good order stand,
Then scarce a Lawyer had a hand,
to take a double Fee:
Eele Pyes are dainty meate in Lent,
I prethée Roger be content,
Good Land-lords doe not raise your rent
so highly.
The Courtier scornes the Countrey Clowne,
There dwels a widdow in our Towne,
Pray mother lend me halfe a Crowne
to buy a wedding Ring:
Tom Taylor did not vse me well,
To steale two yards out of one Ell,
My Belly doth begin to swell,
I'me pepper'd.
The second part,
To the same tune.
AT Battersey good Turnips grow,
There goes three Milke-maids on a row,
Me thinks it is a séemely shew
to sée three honest Millers:
The Sea-man and the Souldier hold,
Venter their liues for fame and gold,
A Slut, a Strumpet, and a Scold,
three good wiues.
King Edgar hated drunkennesse,
And Iulius Caesar loath'd excesse,
I prethee tell me prety Besse,
who lay with thee last night:
Aeneas was a periur'd Prince,
Too many haue done like him since,
Swéet-heart Ile giue thée eighteene pence
to kisse thée.
To thinke how things are chang'd of late,
That Charitie's quite out of date,
Would force a silent man to prate,
oh the merry dayes of old,
When Knights and Squires wore good broad-cloath,
The poore had Béefe as well as broth,
Oh doe not make vs pay for froth
good Tapster.
Our Ladies now are like to Apes,
Their mindes doe alter like their shapes,
Fie Mistris, fie, your placket gapes,
couer your flesh for shame:
The Pander quarrels with the Whore,
And sayes hée'l bee their man no more,
The shot is paide, wipe off the score
kinde Hostis.
A Vsurer and a Broker be
Both Brothers of a company,
The Deuill sure must make them frée
when they haus seru'd their time:
In old time Bakers us'd to be,
Promoted to the Pillory,
Now none, vnlesse for Periury,
péepe thorow.
The Carrier brings vp euery wéeke
Braue Lasses, which the Bawds doe séeke,
What Welchman will not were a Léeke
upon Saint Davids day?
Saint George lies dead at Coventrey,
Oh now for such a man as he,
Our Capteines dy'd i'th Ile of Ree,
ill tydings.
Quéene Elinor built Charing-crosse,
Which now is couer [...] [...]re with Mosse,
The Spanyards mourne for their late losse,
I meane the rich Plate Fléet:
The Dutchmen grieue, and so do we,
For th' death of young Prince Henry,
Alas▪ there is no remedy,
but patience.
My merry Medley here I end,
Which to young men and maids I send,
To make them mirth, the same was pend,
although it séeme non-sense:
Yet is there such variety
Of sense for each capacity,
That old and young may pleased be
to learne it.
M. P.
Finis.
London printed for H. Gosson.