I, but all will not do,
Without a passe or two,
From him that pipes and Tabers the Tattoo.
He's a man that can tell 'em,
Such a Jigge from his vellam;
With his Whistle and his Club,
And his brac't half Tub,
That I think there ne're came before ye,
Though the Mothes lodged in't,
Or in Manuscript or print.
Such a pitifull parchment story.
He that hammers like a Tinker
Kettle Musick is a stinker,
Our Taberer bids him heark it;
Though he thrash till he sweats,
And out the bottome beats
Of his two Dosser Drummes to the Market.
Bag-piper good luck on you,
Th'art a Man for my money;
Him the Bears love better than honey.
How he tickles up his skill,
With his bladder and his quill;
How he swells till he blister,
While he gives his mouth a Glister,
Nor yet does his Physick grieve him;
His chops they would not tarry,
For a try'd Apothecary,
But the Harper comes in to relieve him.
Whose Musick took its fountain,
From the Bogge or the Mountain,
For better was never afforded.
Strings hop and rebound,
Oh the very same sound
May be struck from a Truckle-bed coarded.
Cock a-doodle do, 'tis the bravest game,
Take a Cock from his Dame,
And bind him to a stake,
How he strutts, how he throwes,
How he swaggers, how he crowes,
As if the day newly brake.
How his Mistriss Cackles,
Thus to find him in shackles ;
And ty'd to a Pack-threed Garter;
Oh the Bears and the Bulls,
Are but Corpulent Gulls
To the valiant Shrove-tide Martyr.
Let no Poet Critick in his Ale,
Now tax me for a heedlesse Tale,
For ere I have done, my honest Ned,
I'll bring my matter to a head.
The Brazen Head speaks through the nose, More Logick than the Colledge knowes ; Quick-silver Heads run over all,
But Dunces Heads keep Leaden-hall.
A Quiristers Head is made of aire,
A Head of wax becomes a Player,
So pliant tis to any shape,
A King, a Clowne, but still an Ape.
A melancholy head it was,
That thought it selfe a Venice glasse;
But when I see a drunken sot,
Methinks his head a Chamberpot.
A Poets Head is made of Match,
Burnt Sack is apt to make it catch;
Well may he grind his household bread,
That hath a Windmill in his Head.
There is the tongue of ignorance,
That hates the time it cannot dance;
Shew him deare wit in Verse or Prose,
In reeks like Brimstone in his nose;
But when his Grandams will is read,
O dear (quoth he) and shakes his head.
French heads taught ours the graceful shake,
They learn'd it in the last Earth-quake.
The gentle head makes mouths in state,
At the Mechanick beaver pate.
The empty head of meer Esquire,
Scornes wit; as born a title higher.
In Capite he holds his lands,
His wisdome in Fee-simple stands.
Which he may call for, and be sped,
Out of the Footmans running head.
The Saracens, not Gorgons head,
Can look old ten in th'hundred dead,
But deaths head on his fingers ends,
Afflicts him more then twenty fiends;
An Oxford Cook that is well read,
Knows how to dresse a Criticks head.
Take out the brains, and stew the noats,
O rare Calves-head for Pupills throats.
Prometheus would be puzled,
To make a new Projectors head:
He hath such subtile turnes and nooks,
Such turn-pegs, mazes, tenter-hooks:
A trap-door here, and then a vault,
Should you go in, you'ld sure be caught;
This head, if e'r the heads-man stick,
Hee'll spoile the subtile politick.
Six heads there are will ne'r be seen,
The first a Maids past twice sixteen:
The next is of an Unicorne,
Which when I see, I'll trust his horne ;
A Beggar's in a beaver; and
A Gyant's in a Pigmies hand;
A Coward's in a Ladies lap,
A good man's in a Fryers cap.
The plurall head of multitude,
Will make good hodg-podge when 'tis stude; Now I have done my honest Ned,
And brought my matter to a Head.
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