The Times abuses: OR, Muld-Sacke his grievances briefly exprest, Sewing the causes doth his mind molest, But ye he merry makes, and dedicates This Son in love to all which basenesse hates.
To the [...]une of, Over and under.
ATtend my Masters and give eare,
whilst here I doe relate
The base iniurious slanders
are throwne on me in hate,
My wrongs and great abuses
so commonly are knowne,
As in in a Song to right my wrong,
shall instantly be showne.
They call me fudling Muld-Sacke,
when drinke I have got none,
Cannot they looke to their businesse,
and let Muld-Sacke alone.
If I sometimes a pot or so
doe drinke for recreation,
My reckning paid, a way I goe,
and follow my vocation,
Not any good man gri [...]ving
offensive for to be
By rooking or deceiving,
from that my thoughts are frée,
They call me fudling Muld-Sacke,
when drinke I have got none,
Cannot they thinke on the blacke Iacke,
and let Muld-Sacke alone.
As I along the stréets doe sing,
the people slocke about me,
No harme to any one I meane,
yet féeringly they flout me,
The Bar-boyes and the Tapsters,
leave drawing of their Béere,
And running forth, in haste they cry,
sée where Muld-Sacke comes here.
Thus am I féered by them,
though harme I doe them none,
Cannot they looke to their small kans,
and let Muld-Sacke alene.
The féering cunning Curtezan,
and rooking roaring Boy,
Which day and night doe take delight
in drunkennesse to ioy,
They with their Pimps and Panders,
Decoyes, and cheating Knaves,
Which runs to whores & drinks & roars
and simple men deceives.
They have no grace to guide well,
and conscience they have none,
Cannot they take héed of Bride well,
and let Muld-Sacke alone.
The Glutton rich that féedeth
of Biefe and Mutton store,
And hates the poore that néedeth
which goes from doore to doore,
And will not spend his money,
but for the love of drinke,
And grieves to give a penny,
so well he loves his chinke.
Too many such alive is,
of whom I am sure he's one,
Cannot he remember Dives,
and let Muld-Sacke alone.
The second part. To the same tune.
TEarme-frotting Petty-soggers,
which are so fine and nice,
Will drinke if they meet rightly,
a cup of Ale and Spice,
Yet must they take their Chamber,
before they doe begin,
And if they can but hide it,
they thinke it is no sinne.
When I in the stréets walke open,
to the view of every one,
Cannot they looke to their Clyents,
and let Muld Sacke alone.
The féering fléering Coxcombe,
with hands behind his backe
All day, which stands from morntil night
to cry what doe you lacke,
With scoffing and with taunting,
will by the sleeve me pull;
What is't you'l buy he'l to me cry,
yet like a brainlesse gull.
He'l cast on me a scornefull looke,
though harme I doe him none,
Cannot he looke to his Shop-booke,
and let Muld-Sacke alone.
The Taylors sawcie prentices,
as I doe passe along,
They at my head will cast their shreds,
though I doe them no wrong,
The saying old hath oft beene told,
it plaine doth verifie,
Poore and proud still Taylor like,
for they most féeringly
Doe call me fudling Muld-Sacke,
though drink I have got none,
Cannot they kéepe their fingers true,
and let Muld-Sacke alone.
Also the féering Tripe-wives,
which Puddings sell and Sowce,
Cryes there goes fudling Muld-Sacke,
doth wine and béere carowse,
And with disdainfull spéeches,
having no cause at all,
Will taunt and scoffe and léer and laugh,
and basely me miscall.
And calls me fudling Muld-Sacke,
though I am no such one,
Cannot she scrape well her greaste tripes
and let Muld-Sacke alone.
The Clownish country Carter,
will like wise with a féere,
Point at me as I goe along,
his head being fill [...]d with beere,
Yet for his féeres I care not,
but laughing lets him passe,
To follow his Cart with gée, gée he,
most like a witlesse Asse,
For like a home-bred Clownico,
good manners he knowes none,
Cannot be looke to his Waggon,
and let Muld-Sack alone.
The Bakers in the Suburbs,
with hearts devoid of pitty,
Bread light and small they make for all,
both Country and the City,
And sometimes of in two penny loafe,
of weight wants ounces three,
As merrily I passe them by,
they cannot let me be.
They cali me fudling Muld-Sacke,
when drinke I have got none,
Cannot they looke to their conscience,
and let Muld-Sacke alone.
Finis.
London, Printed for J. Wright, dwelling in Gilt-spur-street.