BARD

Rodamant, my half man, half gobbling, all fool, how is't? when didst thou see the devil. Why then, thou art not acquainted with thy best friend. Have you never seen in the air, One ride with a burning spear, Upon and old witch with a pad, For the devil a soar breech had. With lightning, and thunder And many more wonder. His eyes indeed-law sir, As wide as a saw er. O this would have made my boy mad. Thou sayest right , gape, and I'll throw in a bushel, why does thy hang over thy mouth; as it would peep in, to to ll h w many teeth thou hast? Excellent ! Oh fi fool, Would fool. My head and my feet go one way, and bo h now at their and. The ewes is, that one Patrick a stranger, is invi ted to court: this way h must come, and I Like one of the Kings wanton , have broke lose from he kennel, and come thus afore to bark, and bid him welcome, the King and Queen will meet him. What else man. O the Queen and the King, and the royal Off spring, With the Lords, and Ladies so gay, I tell you not a trick, to meet the man Patrick: Are all now trouping this way. This man report sings, does many strange things: Our Priests, and our Bards must give place. He cares not a straw, for our sword or club-law. O I long to behold his gay face. By a y means. Who? The Queen is't? dost make but a soul Other? treason, I have herd some foolish Philosophers affirm, that women have no souls: 'twere well for some they had no bodies; but to make no body of the Queen, is treason, if it be not felony. No, I will sing a piece of my mind, and love to thee. Love is a bog, a deep bog, a wide bog. Love is a clog, a great clog, a close clog. It's a wilderness to lose our selves, A halter it's to nooze our selves. Then draw Don out o'th mire: And throw the clog into the fire. Keep in the Kings high way, And sober you cannot stray. If thou admire no female else, The balter may go bang it self. Drink wine and be merry, for love is a folly: And dwells in the house of melancholy. It's he, I know him by instinct. Patrick welcome to this I'll, See how every thing does smile: To thy staff and thy miter, And Lawn that is whiter. And every Shaved crown a welcome welcome to town. Look where the King, and Queen do greet thee: H Princoly sons are come to meet thee. And see where a pair is, of very fine Ear es. Prepared too, That thou mayest report, thy welcome to Court, And the Barred too, And so pray father give me your . Where? Poyso ed? we shall want a fool then. Not often, and thou be'st poisoned. He's dead. He breathes too, n y then he may live to have th'other cup: Madam, this Patrick is a rare physician, if he st y with us, ee'l all immortal. How is't now Rodamant? dost thou remember thou were dead? Thou Wertenberg poisoned. Come, we will drink a cup boy, but of better brewing, And we will drink it up joy, without any fear of— Wine is injust that is taken on trust, if it tarry with us it fatts, A cup boy, drinkup joy, and let e'm go p yson rats. I care not whither I be or no: the Queen I come to see. And Like the father. Fare you well Sir, and take a knave Along we'e. Here's a rose Sprung out of a thistle now: You are sad, Madam. Love, art thou in love Rodamant? nay then thou mayest Talk treason or any thing. Folly and madness are la h free, and may ride cheek by joll with a judge. But dost thou know wha love is, thou one of Cupid's overgrown monkeys? Come, crack me this nut of love, and take the maggot for thy labour. What d'yee think of me? I know why you are so melancholy. You want a man. That's more than you know. It's l ng of men that maids are sad; Come then, and sweetly kiss them, Their lips invite, you will be mad To come too late and miss them. In their cheeks, are fullblown roses To make garlands, to make posies: He that desires to be a father, Let him make haste before they fallen, and gather: You stay too long, and do them wrong: If men would virgins strive to please, No maid this year should die o'th green disease. What, are you merry yet? Come, I'll fit you with a song, A lamentable ballad, of one lost Her maidenhead, and would needs have it cried, With all the marks, in hope to have't again. A dainty air too, I'll but tune my instrument. Now you shall hear the ditty. A poor wench was sighing, and weeping amain, And feign would she have her virginity again, Lost she knew not how; in her sleep (as she said) She went to bed pure, but she rise not a maid: She made fast the door, She was certain before, She laid her self down in the bed: But when she awaked, the truth is stark-naked, O she missed her maidenhead. Would, the young Prince, I'll tarry no longer with-thee. Now to the Queen. O Madam, fire, help, we are all lost, The house is round about on fire, the doors Are barred and lock' there is no going forth, We shall be burned, and that will spoil my singing: My voice hath been r covered from a cold; But fire will spoil it utterly. Your company's fair, but I'll leave you in a Wood, I could Like your religion well; but those rules of sasting, prayer, and so much penance, will hardly fit my constitution. But you do not consider, that I shall lose my pension, my pension from the King there's a business. I confess it; and you will get lose by the bargain; but you that have been used to hunger, and nothing to live upon, may make the better shift. The less you at, you say, will make the soul fat; but I have body wonot be used so: I must drink, and go warm, and make much of my voice, I cannot do good up on water and salads, keep your -drink to your selves, I am a kind of foolish , P ick, with us, wine and women are provocatives, long tables and short graces are physical, and in fashion. I'll take my leave Madam, no Christian yet, as the world goes; perhaps hereafter, when my voice is a weary of me, I may grow weary of the world, and stoop to your ord nam j, say my prayers, and think how to die, when my living is taken from me, in the mean time I neither will lend, nor borrow, Old age will be here to morrow, This pleasure we are made for, When death comes all is paid for: No matter what's the bill of fare, I'll take my cup, I'll take no care. Be wise, and say you bade warning, To laugh is better than learning, To wear no clothes, not neat is. But hunger is good where meat ù: Gìve me wine, give me a wench, And let her Parrot talk in French. It is a match worth the making, To keep the merry thought waking; A song is better than fasting, And sorrow's not worth the tasting, Then keep your brain light as you can, And ounce of care will kill a man. And so I take my leave. I do not Like their whispering, there's some mischief, he did so overact his courtesy, I'll look about us.