On the second entertainment of the batchelours by the right honourable the Lord Mayor of the city of London, September viij. MDCLXIX. 1669 Approx. 5 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2009-10 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). B04631 Wing O325 Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.4[76] 99884958 ocm99884958 182746

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. B04631) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 182746) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books; Tract supplement ; A4:2[76]) On the second entertainment of the batchelours by the right honourable the Lord Mayor of the city of London, September viij. MDCLXIX. 1 sheet ([1] p.). [s.n.], London, : Printed MDCLXIX. [1669] The roman numeral dates have a rule over them. Verse: "NOw, Gallants, Much good do't ye. But d' you hear ..." Reproduction of original in the British Library.

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 eng Women -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800. Men -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800. London (England) -- Social life and customs -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800. 2008-04 Assigned for keying and markup 2008-08 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2008-09 Sampled and proofread 2008-09 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2009-02 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
ON THE Second Entertainment of the Batchelours BY THE RIGHT HONOURABLE The Lord Mayor of the City of London, SEPTEMBER viij. MDCLXIX. NOW, Gallants, Much good do't ye. But d' you hear The News abroad? I heard one juſt now ſwear That all th' unmarry'd Ladies, that were met To ſee your Pomp, are fighting in the ſtreet. Th' have pin'd away, e're ſince their former ſight, With the Green-Sickneſs, all; but now they'l ſight. While this Mans Face was prais'd, and that Mans Foot, One Gallants Perruque, and anothers Sute, A jealous humour took 'em all i'th' pate, And th' are by th' ears, none knows for whom, or what. 'Tis ſome of You; pray think upon their Caſes: Unleſs You part 'em, they'l ſpoil all their Faces. They rave (alas!) to think their deſtinies Have Damn'd 'em Maids, till You'l be otherwiſe. Th' are tantaliz'd; what would you have 'm do? They neither can enjoy your Feaſt, nor You. Theſe Sabine Ladies came with longing Eyes To view your more than Roman Gallantries: And now they'l prove th' inverted Story true, And will (I fear) commit a Rape on You. — — But I'l no longer 'fright you, ben't dejected: 'Twas but to try you, how you ſtood affected. The Ladies thank you for their Noble View: The Men, both for the ſight of Them, and You. You've beg'd th' young City Ladies this daies Play: But they muſt Faſt upon their Holy-day. They were both gallant Sights; but 'troth 'tis pity, Maids may Adorn, but ne're can Make a City: And Maids and Batchelours are a finer ſight For a Summers Day, than for a Winters Night. 'Pray, Gallants, think upon't; but for to day Eat, drink, be jovial: — let the Ladies ſtay. If to their Healths you'l drink a Glaſs or two, I dare be bold they'l do as much for You. See all before you, you can wiſh; and here You need no Horn, but that of Plenty, fear. Such ſtore of Ammunition is able To 'fright one with th' Artill'ry of the Table. Tables fo nobly fill'd, as if laſt Fleet Had brought home no Commodity, but Meat: And Wines ſo rich and coſtly, as if there was Cleopatra's Pearl diſſolv'd in ev'ry glaſs. Two more ſuch Feaſts were able to undo A Land, and bankrupt all the World, but You. This very Sight would make a Miſer bold To wiſh (like Midas) he could eat his Gold. A Puritans eternal Lungs would waſte To ſay a Grace, of length for ſuch a Feaſt: He'd leave his Faſts, though ne're ſo great a Sinner, And keep a long Thankſgiving, for the Dinner. Thoſe nauſeous ſtomachs o'th' preciſer Ones Bark at thoſe Tables, where they'd pick the Bones. But Envy, no not Theirs, can dare to call What's Noble by the name of Prodigal. 'Tis free from all Exceſs, as full of State: All Great Mens Actions, like Themſelves, are Great. He from whoſe only Pattern may be ſeen What MAYORS muſt be, and what they ſhould have been: Whoſe early Vig'lance keeps th' Rebellious in, That they want Opportunity to ſin: Who ſtays not calmly till the Law is broke, But keeps Men ſtom't, his Eye prevents his ſtroke: Who rouzes Juſtice from her ſleeping hole, Is both the Body of the Law, and Soul: Who weighs things with an equal ſteady hand, And to whoſe Teſt Juſtice her ſelf may ſtand: He who does this, and more wou'd you but know, What ample boon Heaven does on him beſtow? H' has Adam's bleſſings in his ſingle life, His Wiſdom, Inn'cence, Honour, and no VVife. Let London lift up her recruited Head: She's New-born, and her Father is a Maid. May th' Omen hold, and She forever be Chaſt as a Virgin, as a Virgin Free. When She's again with this daies ſplendour bleſt, Make this brave Pattern th' Epo'che to the reſt. But may no Poetaſter of the Times Send in Sedition crouch'd in Joking Rimes: Still may all thoſe that rail ad Biſhopſgate Feel an eternal Bedlam in their Pate. For next to ſuch a PRINCE, and ſuch a Day, London can only wiſh, She ever may Have ſuch a MAYOR, though She ſtill want a Mayoreſs: So may the City hope to be His Heireſs.

LONDON, Printed M DC LXIX.