PASQUIL

You are welcome sir, what M. Garland ? I'st you, you know my mind; one tooth is dry, Since yesternight I have not had one drink; I am so cold. What did you say? sure I remember not; My wits want freshing. Will driven cold out, and keep my belly warm. Yes that I will, and more then that; I'll do for you, or for your Brother's sake; Like burning Drakes isle split the empty air, And run through thick or thin, at noon or night: If you command, poor Pasquill will obey. Out from the smoking of my Musquets mouth Fetched from the fragments of some Poetry: My nimble Muse comes from the Aquilone, And flaps her wings gainst Austers frothy beard; While Eurus blasts do pinch my tender sides. And gentle Zephir, glads the Seamans heart; Driving his ship, cross Neptune's foaming front. You are disposed to jest M. Ganland. I have many such conceits without book. Once more with patience, silence, & be still: You shall have Rhetoric gainst your will. My Grandame taught me, & I learned by heart This riddle of Saturn's farfetched sighs, But here me Sir, you know that honest man M. Flutterkin our Jovial Host. While you do talk, then I am sure of drink. I go, I run, I haste, I skip, I fly; With nimbler heals then ere did Mercury. This way he went, and here they were ere while, But now they are fled Like birds that cut the air, With clipping wings, and leave no trace behind. But Hans my nose is quick and sharp of sent, Like those great Bears in novam Zembla found, Whose smelling sense was better then their sighed. I cannot see, but smell where they are gone. And English shilling: heigh; did she indeed? I'll drink her health upon my bent knees, Until the Welkin roar, and ground looks blue; Two shillings have I, not one penny spent; I bless my stars, good fortune set me free; This days mine own. I saw no hurt, isle sayt, and swear it too: But good cause why; thou couldst nor go, nor stand Thou Wertenberg so drunk: unfit for Venus game, A cart became thee better then a Coach. That had been pity, which way went the shot Oh hold my head my thumb begins to ache, From hence to France if this be not a lie. I have no manners: had I such and one As Amptill is, to which seven Parks belong, I would keep thee to be my worships fool. In the Fairy land. Where men eat mutton, pig, and goose, and beef, Rabbets and chickens, partridge, pheasants, quails, And drink rich wine, that France or Spain sends in, And strong March Beer, of five or six years old, But on with thy tale. 'Tis not far of, weel go to Flutterkins, And talk more on't. Hang him says nay. Were you a Younker, made of beaten gold, You should have this; What nor your Father's health? All well fit; nothing: I am prettily well, And soes mine host, I think his brains do crow. I thank you sir, I want but Holidays. Pay-dayes I mean, To make one meet another, and shake hands, On even terms, is all that I care for. He was indeed, but went before you came About his business. Gods blessing on your heart, what ere you think You find no fault. And I'll come too, and though I go on foot. Fast a sleep, his troubled head is so vexed With this world's cares. The Sergeant, him Lonely mean, lies sleeping yet within; I'll call him to you, if you will go drink. Die a pace on sir: whats that? That's quite passed The reach or Centre of my shallow brain: But since with terms you think to put me down: Once more have at you, isle not yield it so. The Cuckoo sings not worth a groat, Because she never changes note: The man you speak of, young or old, Indeed he is a plain Cucquolde. I must not stir without my Corporal Gives his consent, I must not so offend For fear the varuels catch me by the feet. As straight as Circe's wand, Not looking back, as oft Meander does, A river fool, didst never see a play, Or hear these verses which I have by heart. Whats he that talketh of the banks of Poe, And of the milkwhite swans that in Meander swam I'll down from hence and scour the Stygian lake: To raise a fiend shall make his soul to quake. I am free from pox, good face. It for thine honesty; Now its on record, 'tis proved, 'tis passed the touch. What Wertenberg thou shot? They are here before us. Why, that I can, see there. There's four, and all unspent. believe your eyes. Sir, one health more, your Father's health, I mean, That good old man, he must not be forgotten. Nor him, nor he, isle drink to none but you, I'll keep my man, I learnt that trick at School. Thank God. My Mistress, and you sir: you are my friends You make me drink, when others will not doot. Swifter then thought, your errand shall be done Good morrow M. Garland, what abroad So early, can you leave so sweet a Fro; By gisse I swear, were I so fairly wed, This hour yet would I have kept my bed.