From THOMAS HEYWOOD's Silver Age, 1613.

PRAISE OF CERES.

WITH fair Ceres, Queen of Grain,

WIT

The reaped fields we roam, roam, roam :

Each country peasant, nymph, and swain,
Sing their harvest home, home, home;
Whilst the Queen of Plenty hallows

Growing fields as well as fallows.

Echo, double all our lays,

1

Make the champians 1 sound, sound, sound,

To the Queen of Harvest's praise.

That sows and reaps our ground, ground, ground.

Ceres, Queen of Plenty, hallows

Growing fields as well as fallows.

1 An old form of "champaigns."

From THOMAS HEYWOOD's Love's
Mistress, 1636.

TO PHOEBUS.

HEBUS, unto thee we sing,

PHOEB

O thou great Idalian king;

Thou the God of Physic art,
Of Poetry and Archery :

We sing unto thee with a heart

Devoted to thy deity.

All bright glory crown thy head,

Thou sovereign of all piety,

Whose golden beams and rays are shed

As well upon the poor as rich,
For thou alike regardest each.
Phoebus, unto thee we sing,
O thou great Idalian king.

From THOMAS MIDDLETON and
WILLIAM ROWLEY'S The
World tost at Tennis, 1620.

SIMPLICITY.

HAPPY times we live to see,

Whose master is Simplicity :
This is the age where blessings flow,
In joy we reap, in peace we sow;
We do good deeds without delay,
We promise and we keep our day;
We love for virtue, not for wealth,
We drink no healths but all for health;
We sing, we dance, we pipe, we play,
Our work's continual holiday;
We live in poor contented sort,

Yet neither beg nor come at court.

TRI

From THOMAS MIDDLETON and

WILLIAM ROWLEY'S

Spanish Gipsy, 1653.1

TRIP IT, GIPSIES.

*RIP it, gipsies, trip it fine,
Show tricks and lofty capers ;

At threading-needles 2 we repine,

And leaping over rapiers :
Pindy-pandy rascal toys!
We scorn cutting purses;

Though we live by making noise,
For cheating none can curse us.

1 Written not later than 1623.

2 An old pastime.

The

Over high ways, over low,

And over stones and gravel,
Though we trip it on the toe,
And thus for silver travel;
Though our dances waste our backs
At night fat capons mend them;
Eggs well brewed in buttered sack,
Our wenches say befriend them.

Oh that all the world were mad!
Then should we have fine dancing;
Hobby-horses would be had,

And brave girls keep a-prancing;
Beggars would on cock-horse ride,
And boobies fall a-roaring ;

And cuckolds, though no horns be spied,
Be one another goring.

Welcome, poet to our ging!1

Make rhymes, we'll give thee reason,
Canary bees thy brains shall sting,
Mull-sack did ne'er speak treason;
Peter-see-me2 shall wash thy now!,3
And Malaga glasses fox thee;
If, poet, thou toss not bowl for bowl,
Thou shalt not kiss a doxy.

1 Company.

2 A corruption of Pedro Ximenes, a delicate Spanish wine.

3 Noddle.

4 Intoxicate.

Answer. Chorus.

Chorus.

Chorus.

Chorus.

SA, SA, THE GIPSIES' ARMY COMES.

'OME, follow your leader, follow ;

COM

Our convoy be Mars and Apollo !
The van comes brave up here ;
As hotly comes the rear.

Our knackers are the fifes and drums,
Sa, Sa, the gipsies' army comes !

Horsemen we need not fear,

There's none but footmen here;
The horse sure charge without;
Or if they wheel about,

Our knackers are the shot that fly,
Pit-a-pat rattling in the sky.

If once the great ordnance play,
That's laughing, yet run not away,
But stand the push of pike,
Scorn can but basely strike;

Then let our armies join and sing,

And pit-a-pat make our knackers ring.

Arm, arm! what bands are those?
They cannot be sure our foes;
We'll not draw up our force,
Nor muster any horse;

For since they pleased to view our sight,
Let's this way, this way, give delight.