Pasquils Palinodia, AND His progresse to the Tauerne, Where after the suruey of the SELLAR, you are presented WITH A pleasant pynte of Poeticall Sherry.

Nulla placere diu, nec viuere carmina possunt
quae scribuntur aquae potoribus.
Horac: ad mecaenatem.

Quem non

Huc, huc pierides.

Castalius or Vinum Hispanense

LONDON: Printed by THOMAS SNODHAM, 1619.


Jnnocuos censura potest permittere lusus,
Lasciua est nobis pagina, vita proba est.
Sic censeo M. Valerius Martialis.

THE PRINTER To the Reader.

GENTLEMEN, I vnderstand that the AVTHOR is so farre out of patience, to heare that this Pasquill is prest for the publike view, which was entended onely for the priuate satisfaction of his peculiar friends, that hee will not greet the READER so much as with a Letter of Com­mendations; yet considering that in these dayes we are alto­ther carryed away with Fashions, and that it is quite be­side the custome to put forth a Poem, without a Dedicato­rie preamble, let mee I pray you make bold, for want of a better scholler, to salute the courteous Reader with a few words of Complement. Who the Author is I know not, & therefore on his behalfe I will be silent; yet I heare that hee is of the minde of that merry Huntsman, which would nei­ther giue nor sell his Hare, but when he saw the Trauailer gallop away with her, and that hee was out of hope to haue her againe, he cryed out, Take her, Gentleman, I will be­stow her on you. Concerning the Poem, although I shall be thought to be sutor vltra crepidam, yet in my opinion, it is a tollerable Pint of Poeticall Sherry, and if the Muses Seller afford no worse wine, it will make Sacke better re­spected, and goe downe the merrier.

[Page]What the peeuish, puritanicall, and meager Zoilist out of his malitious humour shall calumniate, it skils not, for as the Prouerbe is, aut bibat, aut abeat: This dish was not drest to set his Dog-teeth on worke, and therefore if he like not these Lettice, let him pull backe his lips, for as the Poet saith,Ʋirg. de Liuore.

Non lux, non cibus est suauis illi,
Nec potus iuuat, aut sapor lyaei,
Nec si pocula Iupite, propinet, &c.

He was borne with teeth, and grynd when he first came in­to the world, he feedes vpon snakes, drinks small-beere and vinegar, keepes no good company, liues without charitie, and dyes without honestie; hic finis Zoili. Notwithstand­ing for the ingenious and candidous Readers, and all those fat honest men which are of a franke and sociable disposition, I dare be bold to promise, that this dish of drinke will not be distastfull vnto any of their stomackes, for as they haue bodies of a better constitution, so are their minds more fairely qualified, and their iudgements freer from corruption: and therefore to their taste is this Pinte of Poetrie dedicated, which if it seeme pleasant to their pa­late, let mee be well payd for presenting them with it in paper, and I rest satisfied.

Libellus ad Lectorem ex Martiale.

RVmpitur invidia quidam, charissime Lector,
quod me turba legit, rumpitur invidia,
Rumpitur invidia, quòd sum iucundus amicis,
quòd conviva frequens, rumpitur invidia;
Rumpitur invidia, quod amamur, quod (que) probamur,
rumpatur, quis quis rumpitur invidia.
Non nimium cure: nam caenae fercula nostrae
malim conviuis quàm placuisse Cocis.

Pasquils Palinodia, OR, His Pynte of Poetrie.

LOe. I the man whose Muse whilome did play
A horne-pipe both to Country and the Citty,
Am now againe enioyn'd to sing or say,
And tune my crowde vnto another ditty,
To comfort Moone-fac'd Cuckolds, that were sad,
My Muse before was all in hornes yclad,
But now she marcheth forth and on her backe
She weares a Corslet of old Sherry Sacke.
Therefore it is not as in dayes of yore,
When bloud-shed and fierce battailes were her song
And when her Trumpets did Tantara rore
Till all her murth'ring Souldiers lay along,
A milder tune she now playes on her strings,
And Carrols to good company she sings,
The Dedica­tion.
To all good fellowes that are wise in Season,
Listen a while and you shall know the reason.
Long had she Chaunted for the horned Crew
And reap'd no praise nor penny from their hands,
Nor cup of drinke, which is a Fidlers due
(As euery good companion vnderstands)
And therefore vnregarded being dry,
My Muse grew melancholy out a-cry,
And angry forth she runs into the streetes,
Cursing each churlish Cuckold which she meetes.
When I beheld her in that moody vaine,
Which wont to be so blythe and full of sport,
After I ran, to call her home againe,
Least she might chaunce to meete some man of sort,
Some wealthy tradesman, that had been Cornuted,
Of whose large hornes it must not be disputed,
And in this crabbed humour fall to rayle,
And so be had to Counter, without bayle.
When I my sullen Muse had ouertooke,
I gan reproue her for her wilde behauiour,
And charg'd her to returne, as she did looke
Euer to be receiu'd into my fauour:
But she as mad, as is in March a Hare,
Did like vnto a Bedlam stampe and stare,
And for an houre her patience was so weake,
And rage so prest her, that shee could not speake.
At last when passion was a little sway'de,
And that the raynes of fury gan to slack,
A thousand curses on the head, she said▪
Of euery Cuckold, that cries What de'e lacke,
May all their hornes grow visible to sight,
May they proue Iealous, and their women light,
And care not who looke on, that all may geere
And laugh aloud when their Rams-heads appeare.
And may discredit, scorne and fowle disdaine
Light on the hornes of euery English Goate,
Vngratefull churles, that reward my paine
Not with so much, as with a single groat:
Haue I wip'd off the scurrilous disgrace
Which euery Varlet cast vpon their face,
And righted all their wrongs, yet none so kinde,
As with faire words to shew a thankefull minde?
If I had Chroniceld the hungry Rats
Which eate vp Corne, and made prouision deare▪
Or Registred what price a Cade of Sprats,
And pickl'd Herrings, bare in such a yeare,
What grim-fac'd Collier stood vpon the Pill [...]ry,
And who did march most brauely at Th'artillary
Or how men walk'd on Thames the last great [...]ost,
Then I am sure my paynes had not been [...]ost.
But I haue labour'd to redeeme their fame,
And lift their heads to honour with my pen,
Disolu'd all Clouds that did obscure the same,
And ranckt them with the worthiest sorts of men,
I crown'd their horns with bayes, & grac'd thē more
Then euer any Muse hath done before,
And yet no Cuckold from the forked rankes,
Puts out his weathers-face to giue me thankes.
If for their wiues I had my lampe-oyle spent,
And in their seruice drawne my Inke-horne dry,
Those louing creatures would withall content
Haue sought me out, my loue to gratifie,
Kisses and confects had falne with my wishes,
And many other delicates in dishes,
And euen the pen, that writ in their defence,
Should haue beene guilded for my recompence.
Haplesse was I to leaue those gentle Soules,
Poore wormes, that suffer more then all men see,
And take the part of peruerse Iobornols,
Void of good nature, loue, and courtesie,
Now I perceiue my error, and repent
That I against them was so vehement,
And that the world may know that I am turned,
Here I doe wish those bitter lines were burned.
For now I finde those Doues are Innocent,
And that the Cuckold chiefly is in fault,
Whose stubborne carriage, and sterne regiment
Makes vpright women many times to halt:
For when a man is of a sowre condition,
Churlish and froward in his disposition,
It thrusts such things into a womans minde
As she nere dream'd on, if he had beene kinde.
And blame her not, for she is not of Steele,
Nor made of Iron, Brasse, or such hard Mettle,
Neither so sencelesse that she cannot feele
When she is vs'd as Tinkers doe a Kettle,
She is a tender thing, refin'd and pure,
And harsh rough handling cannot well endure,
But like a Venice-Glasse, she breakes asunder,
When boistrous man will striue to keep her vnder.
Let the mad Cuckold ponder his wiues case
In equall ballance iustly with his owne,
And he shall finde, that she doth onely trace
His crooked footsteps; for if she but frowne,
Or somewhat sharpely speake a word or two,
When good occasion moues her so to doe,
Then straight he calls her halfe a dozen whores,
And to the Tauerne gets him out of doores.
And what is then his prattle with his mates
His fellow Drunkards, sitting or'e the pot?
There he begins the story, and relates
What an infernall fury he hath got,
An euerlasting Scold, thats neuer quiet
But checks him for his company and ryot,
Why bang her well quoth one, for by this quart,
If she were my wife, I would breake her heart.
Well, quoth another, fill a cup of Sacke,
And let all Scolds be damb'd as deepe as hell,
Abridge her maintenance, and from her backe
Pull her proud clothes; for they doe make her swell.
And thus in diuelish counsell there they sit,
Till with old Sherry they haue drown'd their wit,
Then druncke, at mid-night, home the knaue doth creep,
And beats his wife, and spues, & fals asleep.
There lyes the beast vntill hee rise againe
Next day at twelue, when being not halfe well,
A haire of Bacchus dog must cure the paine
In which by last nights surfeiting hee fell:
Then he at Tauerne, as hee did before
Drincks himselfe drunck that day & many more,
And in this thriftles course his glasse doth runne
Till he runne out at heeles, and be vndone.
And what excuse doth then the Bankrupt frame
For his profuse and prodigall expence?
Mary forsooth, his Wife did cause the same,
Against whose scolding tongue there's no defence:
For when a man at home cannot be merry,
Hee's forc'd to runne abroad to drinck old Sherry:
Thus shee, poore Turtle, wrong and slander beares,
Who sits meane while at home in griefe & teares.
Shall this most false and slandrous accusation
Be currant for the man, and his abuse?
And shall a woman suffer condemnation,
And not be heard to speake in her excuse?
It is too great a wrong, and most vniust,
The weaker to the wall should thus be thrust,
And when she hath a more indifferent cause
To be deny'd the fauour of the lawes.
Shall a vast vnthrift with a false pretence
Wrong his poore wife, and be exempt from blame?
And shall a woman which hath iust offence,
And forc'd by dogged vsage to her shame,
If she another friend doe entertaine,
To giue her some content, and ease her paine,
Shall she be censur'd with disgracefull speeches,
And he stand cleere because he wears the breeches?
Mars was the first Cuckold maker.
Awake great Mars, for sure thou art asleepe,
Or such iniustice thou would'st not let passe:
There was a time, when thou didst loue to keepe
And in a corner kisse a pretty Lasse:
And therefore if within thy fiery brest
Any quick sparke of warlike courage rest,
For old acquaintance sake doe women right,
And let them not be ouerthrowne with might.
But Mars is deafe, and iustice will not heare,
And lawes are partiall against womens side,
And for because the cruell lawes are cleere
When women in another case are try'de,
That by their booke they shall receiue no fauour,
Which vnto wicked men is oft a Sauiour:
They now suppose it is a great offence,
If they be heard to speake in their defence.
But they shall speake you forked Vnicornes,
And you shall heare them to your small content,
And in despight of your ambitious Hornes,
Ile stand as Champion for the Innocent:
And so display your basenesse and disgrace,
That children shall deride you to your face,
And Towne and countrie both, shall notice haue,
That euery Cuckold is a foole or knaue.
Peace idle Muse, quoth I, and be content,
Thou art too bitter, vehement and loud,
These rayling words will make vs both be shent,
For Cuckolds are growne mighty, rich, and proud,
And wise-men thinke it is the part of fooles
To be too busie medling with edge-tooles:
And therfore be aduis'd, I doe implore thee,
Least with their horns, for barking, they doe gore thee.
I care not for their greatnesse, she reply'de,
Nor doe I feare them though their horns looke high,
For presently let come what will betyde,
Into the Citty shall my Iourney lye;
Where I will ring all Cuckolds such a peale,
As shall quite shame them in the Common-weale.
Well then, said I, if nought will bring thee backe
Yet ere thou goe, lets drinke a pinte of Sack.
For now I saw, that in this raging fit
To vse perswasion was but further folly,
And that her passion bad exil'd her wit,
And drown'd my Muse so deepe in melancholy,
That for to cure her was no other charme,
But with a cup of Sack to make her warme,
And heate her braines, which as all Poets finde,
Doth quicken wit, and quallifies the minde.
Betweene the Muses and the God of wine,
There is a league of kindenesse, peace and loue,
There consanguinity doth them combine,
Being begotten both by lusty Ioue,
So that, no Muse well bred, and truly borne,
Her naturall brothers companie can scorne,
And by their crownes their amity is seene,
One wearing Lawrell, th'other Iuye greene.
And this to be the reason I suppose
That euery Iouiall Poet loues good liquour,
It is the Heliconian Butt, that sweetly flowes
With sprightly Sack, which makes inuention quicker,
And hee's no lawfull sonne vnto the Muses
That loues small beere, and better drinck refuses,
Nor can a watrish wit the Lawrell win,
His Muse is lancke, and his conceit is thin.
And not alone haue Poets these conditions,
Merry conceited lads, and like their mothers,
But all their seruants, Rymers and Musitions,
And red-fac'd Trumpetters, with many others
Which haue with Crochets stuft their pericranions,
Are still reputed to be good Companions,
And for this reason which is here presented,
My Muse to see the Tauerne was contented.
Yet to the Cittie faine she would haue gone,
Yeelding a reason for to draw me thither,
As that their wine was better ten to one
Neere to th'exchange, where Marchants meet together,
But I halfe Iealous, where great numbers be
That some grand Cuckold she might chance to see,
And in this heate of Furye fall to iarre,
Drew her along at last through Temple-Barre.
Keepe in your heads my Neighbours of the Strand,
And looke not out vntill my Muse be past,
Your Wiues are good, for ought I vnderstand,
And yon may be no Cuckolds, and they chast,
Yet least my Muse might chance for to discry
Something might stirre her bile as she walkes by,
For peace-sake, I entreate you euery one,
You would pull in your heads, till she be gone.
Fairely we marched on, till our approach
Within the spacious passage of the Strand
Obiected to our sight a Sommer-broach,
Ycleap'd a May-pole, which in all our Land
No Citty, Towne, nor streete, can parralell,
Nor can the lofty spire of Clarken-well,
Although he haue the vantage of a Rock,
Pearch vp more high his turning weather-cock.
Stay quoth my Muse, and here behold a signe
Of harmelesse mirth and honest neighborhood,
Where all the Parish did in one combyne,
To mount the rod of peace, and none withstood:
Where no capritious Constables disturbe them,
Nor Iustice of the peace did seeke to curbe them,
Nor peeuish Puritan in rayling sort,
Nor ouer-wise Church-warden spoyl'd the sport.
Happy the age, and harmelesse were the dayes,
(For then true loue and amity was found,)
When euery village did a May-pole raise,
And Whitson-ales, and May-games did abound:
And all the lusty Yonkers in a rout
With merry Lasses daunc'd the rod about,
Then friendship to their banquets bid the guests,
And poore men far'd the better for their feasts.
Then raign'd plaine honest meaning, and good will,
And neighbours tooke vp points of difference,
In Common lawes the Commons had no skill,
And publique feasts were Courts of Conscience.
Then one graue Seriant at the Common-pleas
Might well dispatch the Motions at his ease,
And in his owne hands though he had the Law,
Yet hardly had a Clyent worth a straw.
Then Lords of Castles, Mannors, Townes & Towers
Reioyc'd when they beheld the Farmers flourish,
And would come downe vnto the Sommer-Bowers
To see the Country gallants dance the Morris,
And somtimes with his tennants handsome daugh­ter
Would fall in liking, and espouse her after
Vnto his Seruing-man, and for her portion
Bestow on him some Farme, without extortion.
But since the Sommer-poles were ouerthrowne,
And all good sports and merryments decayd,
How times and men are chang'd, so well is knowne
It were but labour lost if more were said:
And therefore Ile be silent, for I hold,
They will not mend although their faults be told,
Nor is it safe the spur-gal'd world to pricke,
For shee's a lusty Iade, and Iades will kicke.
Alas poore May-poles, What should be the cause
That you were almost banish't from the earth?
You neuer were rebellious to the lawes,
Your greatest crime was harmelesse honest mirth;
What fell malignant spirit was there found,
To cast your tall Piramides to ground?
To be some enuious nature it appeares,
That men might fall together by the eares.
Some fierie Zealous Brother, full of spleene,
That all the world in his deepe wisedome scornes,
Could not endure the May-pole should be seene
To weare a cox-combe higher then his hornes,
He tooke it for an Idoll, and the feast
For sacrifice vnto that painted beast;
Or for the wooden Troian Asse of sinne,
By which the wicked merrie Greeks came in.
But I doe hope once more the day will come,
That you shall mount and pearch your Cocks as high
As ere you did, and that the Pipe and Drum,
Shall bid defiance to your enemy;
And that all Fidlers which in corners lurke,
And haue beene almost staru'd for want of worke,
Shall draw their Crowds, and at your exaltation
Play many a fit of merry recreation.
And thou my natiue towne, which was of old,
(When as thy Bon-fiers burn'd, and May-poles stood,
And when thy Wassall-cups were vncontrol'd,)
The sommer-Bower of peace and neighberhood,
Although since these went down, thou ly'st forlorn
By factious schismes, and humors ouer-borne,
Some able hand I hope thy rod will raise,
That thou maist see once more thy happy daies.
And now conceiue vs to be come as farre
As the perspicuous fabrick of the Burse,
Against which frame, the old Exchange makes warre,
Misdoubting that her trading would be worse
By the erection of that stately front,
Which cryes what lack ye, when men looke vpon't:
But for thy takings, Gresham; take no care,
Thou wilt haue doings whilst thou hast good ware.
Whil'st Coaches and Caroaches are i'th world,
And women take delight to buy fond Bables,
And o're the stones whilst Ladies will be hurld.
For which their horses are still kept i'th stables,
And whilst thy shops with prettie wenches swarm,
Which for thy custome are a kinde of charme
To idle gallants, thou shalt still be sure
To haue good vtterance for thy furniture.
And therefore be not enuious, nor conspire
Against thy yonger Sisters small beginnings,
Thou art so rich thy trade cannot retyre,
And she so poore thou need'st not feare her winnings,
If ought doe raise her head, (as who can tell?)
It is her lowlinesse will make things sell,
Her sole humility will vent her wares,
For if men wil not climb, shel'e come down stayers.
If she this open course had kept before,
And out of sight her shops had not withdrawne,
Doubtlesse her takings would haue been much more,
For points, gloues, garters, cambrick-smocks & lawn.
The man of trade which doth the world begin,
Seldome growes rich if he keepe shop within:
For by this meanes no custome can be gotten,
And ere he sell his wares, they will be rotten.
And therefore let a Tradesman that would thriue,
First get a shop in some faire streete of taking,
My next aduice is, that he fairely wiue,
For such a toy, is many a yong-mans making,
Then let his shop be stuft on euery side
With new additions to increase vaine pride,
And he shall see, great Gallants with huge Broaches,
Light at his dore from Male and Female Coaches.
The Burse of Brittaine left behinde our backe,
Wee now aproach the crosse, ycleaped Charing,
A weather-beaten peece, which goes to wracke,
Because the world of Charitie is sparing,
Hang downe thy head, O Westminster for shame,
And all you Lawyers which passe by the same,
Blush (if you can) and are not brazen faced,
To see so faire a monument disgraced.
Doe you not see how London hath repaired
The Crosse in Cheape-side.
And trim'd her Sister, with great charge and cost?
And though her head was from her shoulders pared
Yet she is now restor'd, and fairely crost,
Braue Free-men, I applaud you for this thing,
And will one day your further praises sing,
Meane while my Muse in commendation tels,
You keepe your wiues most neate, and all things else.
It is a shame you Gown'd-men of the Law,
For tis with you that I must put the Case,
Although I know you doe not care a straw,
What I doe tell you, yet vnto your face
I say, it is a shame, and ill befits,
That you should sell your shreds of Law & Writs
At so deere rate, to many a poore mans losse,
And not bestow one Fee to mend this Crosse.
For many pious Acts and Monuments
The Citie will for euer be commended,
Many faire Colledges with goodly rents,
From zeale of Kings and Bishops are descended,
And many priuate men, our ages wonders
Haue vnto famous Hospitals beene founders:
But where suruiues that worke of Charitie,
That from a Lawyer drawes his pedigree?
Redeeme your fame, you law-full Barristers,
And let the world speake better of your zeale,
The commons say, which are no flatterers,
That halfe the riches of the Common-weale
Is in your hands, or will be if you liue,
Because you alwaies take, and nothing giue,
And that your Fees which certaine were of old,
Are now vncertaine, like a Coppi-hold.
The Fynes.
And yet they say you are so honest growne,
You will not take your Fee to plead a cause,
Though once you had a Fee, you now haue none,
That single word accords not with the Lawes:
It must come showring in a golden flood,
Or some of you will doe a man small good,
And whatso'ere men giue, you'l not forsake it,
Because you know that by the Law you take it.
Thus doe the vulgars talke, and you can tell
Whether this fame be true, or else a lyer,
But howsoere it be, you may doe well
To let poore Charity come neere your fire
And warme her selfe, that men no more may hold
The charity of Lawyers to be cold:
It will mens loud with admiration draw,
To see some Gospell ioyn'd with Common-law.
And for the first good worke of your deuotion,
When next you trample to the spacious Hall,
Let Charing-crosse entreat you heare her Motion,
That for your succour by the way doth call,
Build vp her ruynes, and restore her glory,
Which time and graceles hands made transitory.
And let her be as faire to looke vpon,
As is the stately Crosse at Abington.
Profit and honour certainely will spring
Both to your soules and calling by this sight,
Into your minde good motions it will bring,
As you passe by, to doe your Clyents right,
To your vocation will arise from hence
A good report, and greater reuerence,
When with a crosse she's top'd, & faire caru'd vnder
THIS IS THE LAWYERS WORKE, (good Reader wonder.)
To leaue conceits, that vanish as a dreame,
And which our age shall scarce report as true,
Let vs proceede to our intented Theame,
For now to Westminster wee neerer drew,
Which when I did consider, and withall
Into what danger we were like to fall
If we went thither, I began to thinke,
It were not best to goe so farre to drinke.
The reason why thus farre I did proceed
And traine my Muse along from Temple-Barre,
Was to auoid the obiect which did breed
The raging passion that did Reason marre,
Therefore I thought the further I conuaid her,
From sight of Cuckolds, which so furious made her,
She would be sooner pleas'd, because we finde
That out of sight is quickly out of minde.
But when I now conceau'd, that it might proue
As dangerous to goe forward, as retyre
(And that like to a Flounder I did moue
Out of the Frying-pan into the Fire)
Because through Westminster wild Courtiers range,
And if there be no Cuckolds it is strange,
Forward I durst not goe, but turned back,
Greatly perplexed where to drinke our Sack,
Whilst thus I walk't, much troubled and dismayde,
A voyce I heard which from a window spake,
And cald, come hither (so I thought it said)
And thereupon my spirit gan awake,
And vpward I did lift mine eyes to see
If that I knew the place, or who was he
That did me call, when by the Signe I found,
It was a shop whose wares lay vnder ground.
It is a place whereas old Sherry sacke
Is kept in durance in a dungeon deepe,
Attended by young Beagles at his backe,
Whose yawling throats will neuer let him sleepe,
But when that he would take his rest, they spowte him
And grieuously they hoope & pipe about him,
And for to let him bloud they neuer stint,
Into a Gallon, Pottle, Quart, or Pint.
There lyes he Pris'ner to the God of Drinke,
Entomb'd within a Coffin like a Barrell,
Because hee was so forward, as I thinke,
With good stale English-Beere to picke a quarrell:
For hee no sooner came vpon our shore
And met March-beere, which he nere saw before,
But straight perforce they two must try a fall
Where both were cast and spewd against the wall.
Which thing when Bacchus heard, he for them sent,
And Sacke condemn'd to dungeon darke as night,
Because he was so bold and insolent
On English ground against March-Beere to fight.
Beere by his doome was barreld vp aliue,
Because that with a stranger hee would striue,
But was committed to a lighter vault,
For in his owne defence he made th'assault.
Not farre from Sherry sacke in prison lye
Many braue Spirits, for the like offence,
Whom Bacchus vseth with great tyrannie,
And for their liberty will not dispence,
Vntill the cruell Iaylour, with his spawne
Of little Currs, in peeces hath them drawne,
And many hundred times hath let them blood,
Which he sophisticates, as he thinks good.
In dreadfull darkenesse Alligant lies drownd,
Which marryed men inuoke for procreation,
Next vnto him briske Claret is fast bound,
Which addes to Venison more acceptation:
Another corner holds pale colour'd White,
Which to see Iordane doth a man incite,
And feeble Renish on the Rack there striues,
And calls for helpe to Merchants and their wiues.
Strong hoop'd in bonds are here constrain'd to tarry,
Two kinsmen neere allyde to Sherry Sack,
Sweet Malligo, and delicate Canary,
Which warme the stomacks that digestion lacke;
They had a Page whom, if I can make meeter,
Ile let you know, they call'd him See mee Peter,
But being found, he did no great offence,
Paying his fees, he soone was drawne from thence.
Farre in the Dungeon lyes a dainty youth,
With his sweet Brother, as their names make known,
Vnlawfully begotten in the South,
And therefore are cal'd Bastards, white and browne.
For loue to these haue women beene conuicted,
And still vnto them some are so addicted
Although with other drinks their minds are plea­sed,
Yet without Bastard they are neuer eased.
Within the vtmost limits of this Cell,
Surrounded with great Hogs-heads like to burst,
Old Muscadine without his egges doth dwell,
And Malmsey though last nam'd, yet not the worst:
Yet these are better vs'd then all the rest,
For seldome doe the Beagles them mollest,
But in a morne, for then our vse is most,
To call for these, and drinke them with a Tost.
Compast with fetters, these and many more
Tumble in darknesse one vpon another,
And neuer are in quiet, till the score
Kept by the Iaylors wife, an aged mother,
Hath drawne them dry, and then againe they vent them,
And in another case a new torment them,
And sometime cruell Sarasins doe roll them,
Which are so stubborn, that none dare controule them.
Yet none of all these are more hardly vsed,
Then is that true good-fellow Sherry Sack,
If you should heare how much he is abused
You needs must weepe, or else remorse you lacke,
Trodden with feete, sold like a slaue, rackt, iumbl'd,
Let bloud, drawn dry, and by fell Porters tumbl'd,
And least al these base wrongs should not prouoke him,
With Yesso they him purge, with Lime they choake him.
Thus colde and comfortlesse is he confin'd,
Vnto a hideous Caue, resembling hell,
Whereas the Suns bright beames yet neuer shin'd,
Nor can he heare Cocke crow, nor sound of Bell,
Nor know how time doth passe, for all his light
Is from a Candle, both by day and night,
And all the company which doe frequent him,
Are onely nimble Spirits that torment him.
Late in the night when most men are asleepe,
And few are stirring, but theeues, catts, and crickets,
Into the vault the Iaylor downe doth creepe,
Where how he deales with bung-holes & with spickets
I cannot tell, yet some men doe relate,
He makes these strangers proue adulterate,
And thats the cause when women thereof tast
They fall to lewdnesse and become vnchast,
For to beget a wise well featur'd childe,
Some haue prescrib'd, that men must vse good dyet,
With vnsound meate the body is defilde,
And with bad Wine the humours made vnquiet,
Good wine doth breed good bloud which makes me thinke
If wiues are naught, tis long of naughty drinke;
For Woman, is by kinde a vertuous creature,
If vicious potions doe not change her nature.
From these close-Seller iumblings doe arise
Great harmes, and much annoyance to mans body,
For false impostur'd wines doe hurt the eyes,
And turne a wise man oft into a noddy,
Within the braine vile excrements they gather,
Which vnto most diseases are the Father,
As deafenesse, rheums, coughs, gouts, & distillati­ons,
Convulsions, palsies, itch, and inflamations.
These are the cause of quarrells and debate,
Wrath, Wounds, Disorder, Lust, and fornication,
For note, how long men drinke immaculate
And honest Wine, without sophistication,
So long mad passion is stayde Reasons slaue,
But when the Drawer once doth play the knaue,
And makes his Wine dishonest, and turne whore,
Then presently the Boyes begin to rore.
And now I call to minde a pretty Tale,
My Tutor told me when I was a Boy,
Of some old Souldiers (if I doe not faile)
He cald them Greekes, that sackd the Towne of Troy,
The sacking was by base compounded Sacks,
Which laid the Troians sencelesse on their backs,
Inuadunt vr­bem vino.
And euer since good Fellowes for the same,
True Troians and mad Greekes haue had to name.
Where Troy did stand, I almost haue forgot,
Vnlesse it was where London now is seated,
For sure no Troian better lou'd the pot,
Nor with old Sack hath oftner beene defeated
Than hath our Citty-Troian; yet I gather
It stood about the Ile of Tenet rather,
For (as I well remember,) he did say
The Island Tenedos stood in the way.
But let the Poets place it where they will,
And tell of doughty warriors cladin Steele,
How stiffe Achilles did stout Hector kill,
And drag'd his body beastly by the heele,
These are but fictions, for the truth is plaine,
The Troians were but drunk, there was none slaine,
And what wise man will say, they were not drunk,
To fight ten yeares about a restie Punke?
But when the Souldiers were with Sack suppressed,
And some of them lay weltring in their goare,
And some on Beds and Benches fowlie dressed,
So gap'd for breath, that one might heare them snore,
And all the drunken Troians were asleepe
In their disgorged pickle laid to steepe,
Homewards the merry Greekes returned singing,
Yet hauing little cause to boast their winning.
For hereupon blinde Homer tells a fable,
Of wonders that befell in their retire,
How Circe with a potion execrable
Conuerted them to hogs be-dawb'd in mire,
And how the Syren with her pleasant laies,
Sung sweetly vnto them whom she betraies,
Whereas the Morall is, that wine compounded,
At Mermaide, into swine those Greeks confounded.
Tis not the virgin liquor of the grape
That turnes a man into a filthy swine,
A Goate, an Asse, a Lyon, or an Ape,
Such beastly fruits spring neuer from the Vyne,
Brisk blushing Claret, and faire maiden Sherry,
Make men couragious, louing, wise, and merry:
It is adulterous wine that playes the Puncke,
And robs men of their reason being drunke.
By this time I suppose you may coniecture
What this darke Dungeon is, and that the house
Of which my Muse hath read so long a Lecture,
Is nothing but a Schoole where men carrouse,
And learne to drinke; a little common-wealth,
Where euery man is free to drinke a health,
And none denide that can discharge the score:
In briefe, it is a Tauerne, and no more.
The strangers there captiu'd you well discouer
As being with them doubtlesse well acquainted,
And therefore vainely to recite them ouer,
My Muse of surplussage would be attainted,
Yet of their Iaylor I must needes complaine,
Which doth with so great strictnesse them restrain
That without money none their sight comes neer,
And then attir'd in Pewter they appeare.
The Bush did wag, the Dog did shake his tayle,
When first my Muse and I approach'd the wicket,
The Drawers bid vs welcome and al-haile,
And ask't what was our pleasures with the spicket,
I cald for their directions how to finde,
From whence the voyce was to mine eares inclin'd
When straight anon a nimble Mercurie,
Brought vs vp staires among good companie.
It was the day of all dayes in the yeare,
That vnto Bacchus hath his dedication,
When mad braynd Prentises, that no men feare
O'rethrow the dens of bawdie recreation,
When Tailors, Coblers, Plaist'rers, Smiths & Masons,
And euery Rogue will beate down Barbers Basons,
Whereat Don Constable in wrath appeares,
And runs away with his stout Halberdiers.
It was the day whereon both rich and poore,
Are chiefely feasted with the selfe same dish,
When euery Paunch till it can hold no more,
Is Fritter-fild, as well as heart can wish,
And euery man and maide doe take their turne,
And tosse their Pancakes vp for feare they burne,
And all the Kitchin doth with laughter sound,
To see the Pancakes fall vpon the ground.
It was the day when euery Kitchin reekes,
And hungry bellies keepe a Iubile,
When Flesh doth bid adew for diuers weekes,
And leaues old Ling to be his deputie,
Though carnall Libertines are so inclin'd,
That still they loue to tast what is confin'd,
For all their humors are so violent
They'le rather fast at Easter than in Lent.
It was the day when Pullen goe to block,
And euery Spit is fil'd with belly Tymber,
When Cocks are cudgel'd down with many a knock,
And Hens are thrasht to make them short and timber,
When Country wenches play with stoole & ball,
And run at Barly-breake vntill they fall,
And country Lads fall on them in such sort,
That after forty weekes they rew the sport.
And on this day, the Feast to magnifie
Of merry Bacchus, which did heare reside,
Within this Tauerne met a company
Of true, kinde, honest hearts, quite void of pride,
That good companions and good husbands are,
And know both how to spend and how to spare,
That can be merry and yet neuer quarrell,
Nor drowne their wits and reason in a Barrell.
And heare with many welcomes were receiued
My Muse and I, and fell to drinking Sherry,
Where after some few cups, as I conceiued,
Ille liquor docuit voces inflectere cantu.
So it fell out, my Muse grew passing merry,
And from her sullen humour which did raigne,
She was transported to a better vaine,
Qui canit arte canat, qui bibit arte bibat.
And gan to sing, like to a Iouiall drinker,
In praise of Sack, and tun'd it to the Tinker.
COme hither learned Sisters,
and leaue your forked Mountaine,
I will you tell where is a Well,
doth far exceed your Fountaine,
Of which, if any Poet,
doe taste in some good measure,
It straight doth fill, both his head and quill,
Frustra poeticas fores compos sui pepulit.
with ditties full of pleasure,
And makes him sing giue me Sacke, old Sacke boyes,
to make the Muses merry,
The life of mirth, and the ioy of the earth,
Is a cup of good olde Sherry.
Tis not the God of
nor his Apothecary,
Nor all his Drugs, that stand in Iuggs,
with Potions ordinary,
Exultatio animae & corporis vinū.
That now shall be regarded,
or had in any wonder,
His Vrinall against the wall,
he now may pisse asunder.
For we haue found old Sack, old Sack boyes,
which makes a sick man merry,
The life, &c.
Facit ad iucun­ditatem, ad ani­tatem corporis, ad vitae aequitae­tem bonos mores.
It is the true Nepenthes
which makes a sad man frolicke,
And doth redresse all heauinesse,
cold Agues and the Chollicke,
It takes away the crutches,
from men are lame and cripled,
And dryes the pose, and rheums of the nose,
if it be soundly tipled.
Then let vs drinke old Sack, old Sacke boyes,
which makes vs sound and merry,
The life, &c.
Liberat seruicio iurarum animū, & asserit vegeti­orem & aud acio­rem in omnes conatus facit.
It is the Riuer Lethe,
where men forget their crosses,
And by this drinke they neuer thinke,
of pouerty and losses,
It giues a man fresh courage,
if well he sup this Nectar,
And cowards soft, it lifts aloft,
In praelia trudit inermem.
and makes them stout as Hector,
Then let vs drinke old Sacke, old Sacke boyes,
which makes vs stout and merry.
The life, &c.
It is the well of Concord,
Omnis animi asperitas dulciori succo mitigatur leuit transitum spiritus, ac mol­liores efficit meatus.
where men doe take vp quarrells,
When loue doth lacke, by drinking Sacke
they draw it from the Barrells.
If drunkards are vnruly,
whom Claret hath enflamed,
With a cup or two, this Sacke can doe,
Bibant & furo­ris sui nonrecor­dentur.
they sleepe, and so are tamed.
Then let vs drinke old Sacke, old Sacke boyes,
Qui bene bibit bene dormit.
which makes vs kinde and merry,
The life, &c.
The Broth with Barly sodden,
Multae allae poti­ones sunt, quibus in penaria homi­nes vt untur, ta­men inter omnes hoc vinum tenet, quia datur nobis ad necessitatem, ad sanitatem, & ad hilaritatem.
compares not with this licker,
The Draymans Beere is not so cleere,
and foggy Ale is thicker:
Matheglin is too fulsome,
cold Cyder and raw Perry,
And all drinks stand with Cap in hand
in presence of old Sherry.
Then let vs drinke old Sacke, old Sacke boyes,
which makes vs blythe and merry,
The life, &c.
No fiery red-fac'd Claret,
attended with his Borrage,
No Renish wine that's pissing fine,
nor white, that cooles the courage,
No base begotten Bastard,
nor bloud of any Berry,
Can raise the Braine to such a straine,
Hoc vinum acuit nigeium.
nor make the heart so merry.
Then let vs drinke old Sacke, old Sacke boyes,
which makes vs blythe and merry,
The life, &c.
The Citizen loues fidling,
that he may friske and caper,
The Scholler lookes vpon his bookes,
and pores vpon a Paper.
The gentle bloud likes hunting
where dogs doe trace by smelling,
And some loue hawks, some groues, & walks,
and some a handsome dwelling.
Sacke sapit omnia.
Yet all these without Sacke, old Sacke boyes,
makes no man kindely merry.
The life, &c.
Vinum dicitur quia vinculum societatis.
The knot of harty friendship,
is by good Sacke combyned,
They loue no Iarrs, nor mortall warrs,
that are to Sacke inclined,
Sine Cerere & Sacco friget Virtus.
Nor can he be dishonest,
whom Sacke and Sugar feedeth,
For all men see, hee's fat and free,
and no ill humour breedeth.
Then let vs drinke old Sack, old Sacke boyes,
that makes vs fat and merry,
The life, &c.
Vt cor per tristi­tiam contrabitur & torpescit, ita per vini laeticiam laxatur & titil­lat.
A quart of Sacke well burned,
and drunke to bed-ward wholly,
I dare be bold doth cure the cold,
and purgeth Melancholly,
It comforts aged persons,
Rugaque frontis abit.
and seemes their youth to render,
It warmes the braynes, it fils the vaines,
and fresh bloud doth ingender.
Then let vs drinke old Sack, old Sack boyes,
which makes vs warme and merry,
The life, &c.
Sacke makes a faithfull subiect,
that doth no treason study,
Nor doth he thinke, when he takes this drink,
of plotting murthers bloudy,
He loues his King and Country,
In vino verita [...].
from whom he neuer started,
The great black Iack well fild with Sack,
doth make the Guard true-hearted.
Then let vs drinke old Sacke, old Sacke boyes,
which makes true Subiects merry,
The life &c.
No care comes neere this fountaine,
Eluit curas, & ab imo animum mouet.
where ioy and mirth surpasses,
And the God of drink stands vp to the brink,
Aliquando in ex­ultationem & li­bertatem est ani­mas extrahen­dus, tristisque sobrietas remo­nenda paulisper.
all arm'd in Venice glasses,
And calls vpon good Fellowes,
that are both wise and merry,
That about this spring, they wold dance and sing,
and drinke a cup of Sherry.
Then let vs drinke old Sacke, old Sacke boyes,
which makes vs wise and merry,
And about this spring, let vs dance and sing,
and drinke a cup of Sherry.
Thus sung my Muse, and thus the stormes were laid,
And she grew debonaire and fairely calme.
When any Muse with rage is ouer-swaid,
Let Poets learne it is a soueraigne balme,
To wet their pipes with good facetious Sherry,
Which makes them iocond & most sweetly merry,
And thus I brought her home, wher now she rests,
Foecundi calices quem non fecere disertum?
The feast is done, y' are welcome all my guests.
Aliquando insanire iucundissimum est.

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