ALMANAC

When can I doo't sir? you must stay till Lent. Away, Candlemas Eve will never bear thee in these days, it's so frampole, the Puritans will never yield to't. Here comes Plumporridge. Nay friendship, friendship. Well setting this apart, whose water's this sir? Kersmas? why let me see, I saw him very lusty a Twelfe-night. And what ha he given away, let me see, Plumbroth. Well he may linger out till Candlemas: But never recover it. Here's New-yeere? Mirth & a healthful time fill all your days. Look freshly, Sir. Y'aue a brave mind to work on, use my rules, And you shall cut a Caper in November, When other years your Grandfathers lay bedrid. A foolish Fasting-day, And unseasonable cock scomb, seeks now for a service, Ha hunted up and down, ha been at Court, And the Long-Porter broke his head a'crosse there, He had rather see the Devil, for this he says, He never grew up so tall with Fasting-dais, I would not for the price of all my Almanacs; The Guard had took him there, they would would beat out his brains with Bombards. I bade him stay till Lent, and now he whimpers; He would to Room forsooth, that's his last refuge, But would try awhile, How well he should be used in Lancashire. 'Tis here upon Record. I, I'll besworne for that. I never yet herd Truth better whin'de out. 'Tis old Time, Sir, that belonged To all your Predecessors. Why that's his cause of continued ̄ ming to continued ̄ plain, Because Shrouetuesday this year dwells so near him. But ti's his place he cannot be removed. You must be patient, Candlemas, and brook it. This Rabble, Sir, Shrouetuesday, hungry Lent, Ill Mayday, Midsummer Eve, and the first Dogge-day, Come to receive their places endue by custom, And that they built upon. I will doo't in Cone. Stand forth Shrouetuesday, one'a the silenc'st Bricklayers, 'Tis in your charge to pull down Bawdyhouses, To set your Tribe awork, cause spoil in Shorditch, And make a Dangerous Leak there, deface Turnbul, And tickle Codpiece Row, ruin the Cockpit, the Poor Players never thrived in't, a my Counterfeit ̄ science some Quean pist upon the first Brick; For you, lean Lent, be sure you utter first Your rotten Herrings and keep up your best Till they be rotten, then ther's no deceit When they be all alike. You Ill-Mayday, Be as unruly a Rascal as you may, To stir up Deputy Double Diligence, That comes perking forth with Halberts: And for you Midsummer Eve, that watches warmest, Be but sufficiently drunk, and you're well harnessed, You Dogday! A churlish maundring Rogue, You must both beg and rob, curse and collogue, In cooler Nights the Bairn with Doxies fill, In Harvest lie in Haycock with your Jill. They have all their charge. To bid'em since the way to make e'm mend, For what they are forbid, they run to headlong. I have cast their Inclinations, now your service, To draw fresh blood into your Mrs. cheeks, slaves! It's still your servant. These are your Good Days, and your Bade Days, Sir, Those your Indifferent days, nor good, nor bade. A wonder there's so many. How these broke lose, every one stops their passage, And makes inquiry after they. This Farmer will not cast his seed ith' ground Before he look in Bretnor, there he finds Some word which he hugs happily, as, Ply the Box, Make Hay betimes, It falls into thy Mouth. A punctual Lady will not paint forsooth Upon his Critical days, 'twill not hold well, Nor a nice Citie-Wedlocke eat fresh Herring, Nor Perriwinkles; Although she long for both, if the word be that day, Gape after Gudgins, or some fishing phrase. A Scriveners Wife will not entreat the Money-master That lies ith' house, and gets her Husbands children To furnish a poor Gentleman's Extremes, If she find, Nihil in a Bag, that morning, And so of thousand follies, these suffice To show you Good, Bade, and Indifferent Days, And all have their Inscriptions, here's, Cock a Hoop, This the Gear cottens, and this, Faint Heart, never These, noted Black for Badness, Rods in piss. This, Post for Puddings, this Put up thy Pipes, These black and white indifferently inclining To both their nature's, neither Full nor Fasting, In Dock, out Nettle,—Now to your motion, Black Knaves, and white Knaves, and you parcel Rascals, Two hypocritical party-colord Varlets, That play o'both hands. I see these pleasures of low Births and Nam tures, Add little freshness to your cheeks, I pity you, And can no longer now conceal from you, Your happy Omen, Sir, Blessings draw near you, I will disclose a Secret in Astrology, By the sweet Industry of Harmony, Your white and glorious friend; Even very Deities have conspired, to grace Your fair Inauguration, here I find it, 'Tis clear in Art, The minute, nay, the point of Time's arrived, Me thinks the blessings touch you, now they're felt, Sir.