From a proud Woodcock, and a peevish wife,
A pointlesse Needle, and a broken Knife,
From lying in a Ladies lap,
Like a great fool that longs for pap,
And from the fruit of the three corner'd tree,
Vertue and goodnesse still deliver me.
From a conspiracy of wicked knaves,
A knot of villains, and a crew of slaves,
From laying plots for to abuse a friend,
From working humours to a wicked end,
And from the wood where Wolves and Foxes be,
Vertue and goodnesse still deliver me.
From rusty Bacon, and ill rosted Eeles,
And from a madding wit that runs on wheels,
A vap'ring humour, and a beetle head,
A smoky chimney, and a lowsie bed,
A blow upon the elbow and the knee,
From each of these, goodnesse deliver me.
From setting vertue at too low à price,
From losing too much coyn at Cards and Dice.
From surety-ship, and from an empty purse,
Or any thing that may be termed worse;
From all such ill, wherein no good can be,
Vertue and goodnesse still deliver me.
From a fool, and serious toyés,
From a Lawyer three parts noise;
From impertinence like a Drum
Beat at dinner in his room,
From a tongue without a file,
Heaps of Phrases and no stile,
From a Fiddler out of tune,
As the Cuckoo is in June.
From a Lady that doth breath
Worse above, than underneath.
From the bristles of a Hog,
Or the ring-worm in a Dog:
From the courtship of a bryer,
Or St. Anthonies old fire.
From the mercy of some Jaylors,
From the long bills of all Taylors,
From Parasites that will stroak us,
From morsells that will choak us,
From all such as purses cut,
From a filthy durty slut,
From Canters and great eaters,
From Patentees and Cheaters,
From men with reason tainted,
From women which are painted,
From all far-fetch'd new fangles,
From him that ever wrangles,
From rotten Cheese, and addle Eggs,
From broken shins and gowty Legs,
From a Pudding hath no end,
From bad men that never mend,
From the Counter or the Fleet,
From doing penance in a sheet,
From Jesuites, Monks, and Fryers,
From hypocrites, knaves, and lyers,
From Romes Pardons, Bulls, and Masses,
From Bug-bears, and broken Glasses,
From Spanish Pensions and their spies,
From weeping Cheese with Argus eyes,
From forain foes invasions,
From Papistical perswasions,
From private gain, by publick losse,
From coming home by weeping crosse,
From all these I say agen,
From the famous Peak of Darby,
And the Devils-Arse there hard-by,
Where we yearly keep our Musters,
Thus the Egyptians throng in clusters.
Be not frighted with our fashion,
Though we seem a tattered Nation;
We account our rags, our riches,
So our Tricks exceed our stitches.
Give us Bacon, rinds of Wallnuts,
Shells of Cockels, and of small Nuts ;
Ribands, bells, and saffrand linnen,
All the world is ours to win in,
Knacks we have that will delight you,
Slight of hand that will invite you,
To endure our tawny faces
Quit your places, and not cause you cut your laces.
All your fortunes we can tell ye,
Be they for the back or belly:
In the Moods too and the Tences,
That may fit your fine five senses.
Draw but then your gloves we pray you,
And sit still, we will not fray you;
For though we be here at Burley,
Wee'd be loath to make a hurley.
Another sings.
Stay my sweet Singer,
The touch of thy finger,
A little and linger;
For me that am bringer
Of bound to the border,
The rule and Recorder,
And mouth of the order,
As Prist of the Game,
And Prelate of the same.
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