A Total Rout, Or a Brief discovery, Of a Pack of Knaves and Drabs, intituled Pimps, panders, Hectors, Trapans, Nappers, Mobs, and Spanners: the description of their qualities, is here set down in brief.
YOU Princely Hectors of the Town,
Who like the Devil strut up and down.
Come leave your God dammees, and herken to me,
O 'tis pitty that fuel for Hell you should be:
Your Spirits Heroick, will quickly be quell'd
When once the General Sessions are held,
For hee's not a Gentleman, that wears a sword,
And fears to swear Dammee at every word.
No Iustice of Peace, nor Constables Bill
Can move your brave courages for to be still.
Superiour Spirits, which know not to bow,
Like Pompey no equal can pleasing allow;
'Twere sin to be subiect, Go courages brave,
Subiection does only but Christen a slave.
For hee's not a Gentleman that wears a sword,
And fears to swear Dammee at every word.
But hark my poor Ranter, ile tell thee a tale
Thy cursings and bannings will buy thee no Ale:
Ile bring thee a Broom stick, or an Orange-taild slut.
(With eight-pence in pock, ready dried and cut.)
Shall out vapour thee more with a confident face.
And sooner be trusted in a desperate case.
Then prethee poor Hector go pawn 'way thy sword
And cease to swear Dammee at every word.
For why? the Ale-brokers have vowed & protested,
(And I think they will keep it, unless they be basted)
To trust you no longer resolved they be,
For building of Sconces both one, two, and three.
Damne, damne ye, youl pay 'um to day, or to morrow,
But next day is come, yet they do still borrow:
Fie, fie Sir, a Gentleman and wear a sword,
Yet break your God-dammees at every word.
The Taylor comes oft with a pestilent Bill,
And faith he may come as oft as he will,
But be little the better, unless for his pains
With Dammees, and Rammees you addle his brains:
Poor Snip, does return as light as he came,
Home goes, and complains to his Stomachy Dame,
Who rants, and tears, not afraid to be heard,
And straps him, and raps him with top of the yard.
Then prethee my Ranter, that wearest a sword.
Turn honest, and once be as good as thy word.
The Turn-ball Whores cry they are undone,
And must to Virginia pack one by one,
And in truth they'l inrich that beggerly Nation.
For never such Planters came to a Plantation.
You stole 'way their smocks, and petticoats all;
Besides did not pay 'um for what you did call.
Fie, fie, my base Ranter, this is but a poor,
A shabbed come off to plunder a Whore.
But this is not all I have to say,
I heard a complaint the other day,
Of a Gentleman walking, in Lincolns Inne fields,
Whom basely you took and kickt up his heeles,
Div'd into his pocket, and took ten and three pence.
You would not have spard it if it had bin but fipence
Thus poverty makes you Gentlemen bold,
Turn Levellers all for another mans gold.
But tarry, you spard not his cloak as I take it.
Twere sinne I confess as you Hectors do make it,
To suffer superfluous Coats on another,
When he that hath two must give one to his brother
But then to the Brokers this garment must march,
And woe to the fellow if there come a search,
Thus one, two and three are ruind together,
Whilst you at the Tavern crak knaves of a feather.
And if it fall out the Constable snaps ye,
How many twice doubled God dammees out raps ye
That the Constable and his train shall pay,
For abusing such Gentlemen cleer as the day,
Who scorn to own ignoble designes,
But have meanes and have Mannors to satisfie Fines.
But hang't my poor Ranter thou canst not devise,
To daube up the Constables mouth with thy lyes.
Away you are guarded ro Newgate and then,
Y'are sure of a Lodging when honester men,
Exposd to the weather contentedly want one,
And you to your minds, I doe believe han't one,
But patience perforce, My Ranters you know,
Is medicine for mad dogs, and very well so,
And now my good Reader canst tell me what ayle,
My Ranter to be coopt up in a Gaile.
Now off goes the silver lace from the Coat.
The buttons so needless and the points to b [...]ot,
Two shirts are too many and rather then faile,
One must be chang'd for Tobacco and Ale.
These Hats are but toyes superfluous; come,
Our heads may be cold not wet in this roome,
Then hang't call a Broker, and let him bring chink
Weel sel him our hats, yea our heads for good drink
But oh my poore Ranter, thus totterd and torne,
And almost as naked as ere thou wert born:
What meanst thou to live so damnably base,
And dye in a Gaile tis a desperate case,
Damnation and Hell comes poasting together,
And without repentance thou shalt suffer either,
Thy cursed God dammees, and damnable cheats,
Ungodly endeavours, and horrible feats,
Are all Cable ropes, to draw thee to Hell,
Bt yet prithee Ranter repent, so Farewell.
FINIS.