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When Philomel begins to sing, the grasse growes green and flowres spring, Me thinks it is a pleasant thing to walk on Primrose hill. Maides, have you any Connie-skins To sell for Laces or great Pinnes ? The Pope will pardon veniall sinnes : Saint Peter. Fresh fish and newes grow quickly stale : Some say good wine can nere want sale, But God send poore folkes Beere & Ale enough untill they die. Most people now are full of pride, The Boy said no, but yet he lyde, His Aunt did to the Cuck-stoole ride for scolding. Within our Towne faire Susan dwells : Sure Meg is poyson'd, for she swells. My friend, pull off your bozzard's bells, and let the haggard fly. Take heed you play not at Tray-trip, Shorte heeles forsooth will quickly slip, The beadle makes folke with his whip dance naked. Come, Tapster, tell us what's to pay, Iane frownd and cryde, " Good Sir, away !" She tooke his kindnesse, yet said " nay," as Maidens vse to do : The man shall have his Mare agen, When all false knaues proue honest men, Our Sisly shall be Sainted then, true Roger. The Butcher with his masty Dog, At Rumford you may buy a Hog, I' faith Raph Goose hath got a clog, his wench is great with childe. In pillory put the Baker's head For making of such little bread, Good conscience now-a-dayes is dead, Pierce plowman. The Cutpurse and his Companie, Theeues finde receivers presently ; Shun Brokers, Bawdes and Vsury, for deare of after-claps. Lord, what a wicked world is this, The stone lets Kate, she cannot pisse ; Come hither, sweet, and take a kiss,e in kindenesse. In Bath a wanton wife did dwell, She had two buckets to a well, Would not a dog for anger swell, to see a pudding creepe ; The Horse-leach is become a Smith, When halters faile, then take a with : They say an old man hath no pith, Round Robin. Simon doth suck up all the egges, Franke neuer drinks without nutmegs, And pretty Parnell shewes her legs, as slender as my waste : When faire Ierusalem did stand, The match is made, giue me thy hand, Maulkin must have a cambrick band, blew starched. The cuckow sung hard by the doore, Gyll brawled like a butter-whore, Cause her buckeheaded Husband swore the Miller was a knave. Good Poets leaue off making playes, Let players seek for Souldiers' payes, I doe not like the drunken fraies in Smithfield. Now Roysters spurs do gingle braue, Iohn Sexton play'd the arrand knaue To digge a coarse out of the grave and steal the sheet away. The wandring Prince of stately Troy, Greene sleeves were wont to be my ioy, He is a blinde and paultry boy, god Cupid. |