Chapter V: Appendix: OF NOTES, &c., ARRANGED IN FOUR PARTS (3)

That man I despise, that thinks himself wise,
Because he can talk at Table,
And at a rich feast break forth a poor jest,
To the laughter of others more able.
No, he hath more wit, that silent can sit,
Yet knowes well enough how to do it,
That speaks with reason, & laughs in due seaso[n,]
And when he is mov’d unto it.

I care not a fly, for a house that’s built high,
And yeelds not a cup of good beer,
Where scraps you may find, while Venison’s in kind
For a week or two in a yeare.
He a better house keeps, that every night sleeps
Under a Covert of thatch,
Where’s good Beef from the Stall, and a fire in the Hall,
Where you need not to scramble nor snatch.

Then lend me your Touch, for dissembling there’s much,
Ile try them before I do trust.
For a base needy Slave, in shew may be brave,
And a sliding Companion seem just.
The man that’s down right, in heart & in sight,
Whose life and whose looks doth agree,
That speaks what he thinks, and sleeps when he winks,
O that’s the companion for me.

_A copy of Verses of a mon[e]y Marriage._

1.

No Gypsie nor no Blackamore,
No Bloomesbery, nor Turnbald whore,
Can halfe so black, so foule appeare,
As she I chose to be my Deare.
She’s wrinkled, old, she’s dry, she’s tough,
Yet money makes her faire enough.

2.

Nature’s hand shaking did dispose,
Her cheeks faire red unto her nose,
Which shined like that wanton light,
Misguideth wanderers in the night.
Yet for all this I do not care,
Though she be foul, her money’s faire.

3.

Her tangled Locks do show to sight,
Like Horses manes, whom haggs affright.
Her Bosome through her vaile of Lawne,
Shews more like Pork, her Neck like Brawn.
Yet for all this I do not care,
Though she be foul, her money’s faire.

4.

Her teeth, to boast the Barbers fame,
Hang all up in his wooden frame.
Her lips are hairy, like the skin
Upon her browes, as lank as thin.
Yet for all this I do not care,
Though she be foul, her money’s faire.

5.

Those that her company do keep,
Are rough hoarse coughs, to break my sleep.
The Palsie, Gout, and Plurisie,
And Issue in her legge and thigh.
Yet me it grieves not, who am sure
That Gold can all diseases cure.

6.

Then young men do not jeere my lot,
That beauty left, and money got:
For I have all things having Gold,
And beauty too, since beautie’s sold.
For Gold by day shall please my sight,
When all her faults lye hid at night.

_The baseness of Whores._

Trust no more, a wanton Whore,
If thou lov’st health and freedom,
They are so base in every place,
It’s pity that bread should feed ’um.
All their sence is impudence,
Which some call good conditions.
Stink they do, above ground too,
Of Chirurgions and Physitians.

If you are nice, they have their spice,
On which they’le chew to flout you,
And if you not discern the plot,
You have no Nose about you.
Furthermore, they have in store,
For which I deadly hate ’um,
Perfum’d geare, to stuffe each eare,
And for their cheeks Pomatum.

Liquorish Sluts, they feast their guts,
At Chuffs cost, like Princes,
Amber Plumes, and Mackarumes,
And costly candy’d Quinces.
Potato plump, supports the Rump,
Eringo strengthens Nature.
Viper Wine, so heats the chine,
They’le gender with a Satyr.

Names they own were never known
Throughout their generation,
Noblemen are kind to them,
At least by approbation:
Many dote on one gay Coat,
But mark what there is stampt on ’t,
A stone Horse wild, with toole defil’d,
Two Goats, a Lyon rampant.

Truth to say, Paint and Array,
Makes them so highly prized.
Yet not one well, of ten can tell,
If ever they were baptized.
And if not, then tis a blot
Past cure of Spunge or Laver:
And we may sans question say
The Divel was their God-father.

Now to leave them, he receive them,
Whom they most confide in,
Whom that is, aske _Tib_ or _Sis_,
Or any whom next you ride in.
If in sooth, she speaks the truth,
She sayes excuse I pray you,
The beast you ride, where I confide,
Will in due time convey you.

_A Lover disclosing his love to his ~Mistris~._

Let not sweet _St._ let not these eyes offend you,
Nor yet the message, that these lines impart,
The message my unfeined love doth send you,
Love that your self hath planted in my heart.

For being charm’d by the bewitching art
Of those inveigling graces that attend you:
Love’s holy fire kindled hath in part
These never-dying flames, my breast doth send you.

Now if my lines offend, let love be blam’d,
And if my love displease, accuse my eyes,
And if mine eyes sin, their sins cause only lyes
On your bright eyes, that hath my heart inflam’d.

Since eyes[,] love, lines erre, then by your direction,
Excuse my eyes, my lines, and my affection.

_The contented Prisoner his praise of ~Sack~._

How happy’s that Prisoner
That conquers his fates,
With silence, and ne’re
On bad fortune complaines,
But carelessely playes
With his Keyes on the Grates,
And makes a sweet consort
With them and his chayns.
He drowns care with Sack,
When his thoughts are opprest,
And makes his heart float,
Like a Cork in his Breast.

_The Chorus._

Then,
Since we are all slaves,
That Islanders be,
And our Land’s a large prison,
Inclos’d with the Sea:
Wee’l drink up the Ocean,
To set our selves free,
For man is the World’s Epitome.

Let Pirates weare Purple,
Deep dy’d in the blood
Of those they have slain,
The scepter to sway.
If our conscience be cleere,
And our title be good,
With the rags we have on us,
We are richer then they.
We drink down at night,
What we beg or can borrow,
And sleep without plotting
For more the next morrow.

Since we, &c.

Let the Usurer watch
Ore his bags and his house,
To keep that from Robbers,
He hath rackt from his debtors,
Each midnight cries Theeves,
At the noyse of a mouse,
Then see that his Trunks
Be fast bound in their Fetters.
When once he’s grown rich enough
For a State plot,
Buff in an hower plunders
What threescore years got.

Since we, &c.

Come Drawer fill each man
A peck of Canary
This Brimmer shall bid
All our senses good-night.
When old _Aristotle_
Was frolick and merry,
By the juice of the Grape,
He turn’d Stagarite.
_Copernicus_ once
In a drunken fit found,
By the coruse [course] of his brains,
That the world turn’d round.

Since we, &c.

Tis Sack makes our faces
Like Comets to shine,
And gives beauty beyond
The Complexion mask,
_Diogenes_ fell so
In love with this Wine,
That when ’twas all out,
He dwelt in the Cask.
He liv’d by the s[c]ent
Of his Wainscoated Room;
And dying desir’d
The Tub for his Tombe.

Since we, &c.

_Of DESIRE._

Fire, Fire!
O how I burn in my desire.
For all the teares that I can strain
Out of my empty love-sick brain,
Cannot asswage my scorching pain.
Come Humber, Trent, and silver Thames,
The dread Ocean haste with all thy streames,
And if thou can’st not quench my fire,
Then drown both me and my Desire.

Fire, Fire!
Oh there’s no hell to my desire.
See how the Rivers backward lye,
The Ocean doth his tide deny,
For fear my flames should drink them drye.
Come heav’nly showers, come pouring down,
You all that once the world did drown.
You then sav’d some, and now save all,
Which else would burn, and with me fall.

_Upon kinde and true Love._

’Tis not how witty, nor how free,
Nor yet how beautifull she be,
But how much kinde and true to me.
Freedome and Wit none can confine,
And Beauty like the Sun doth shine,
But kinde and true are onely mine.

Let others with attention sit,
To listen, and admire her wit,
That is a rock where Ile not split.
Let others dote upon her eyes,
And burn their hearts for sacrifice,
Beauty’s a calm where danger lyes.

But Kinde and True have been long try’d,
And harbour where we may confide, [? An]
And safely there at anchor ride.
From change of winds there we are free,
And need not fear Storme’s tyrannie,
Nor Pirat, though a Prince he be.

_Upon his Constant Mistresse._

She’s not the fairest of her name,
But yet she conquers more than all the race,
For she hath other motives to inflame,
Besides a lovely face.
There’s Wit and Constancy
And Charms, that strike the soule more than the Eye.
’Tis no easie lover knowes how to discover
Such Divinity.

And yet she is an easie book,
Written in plain language for the meaner wit,
A stately garb, and [yet] a gracious look,
With all things justly fit.
But age will undermine
This glorious outside, that appeares so fine,
When the common Lover
Shrinks and gives her over,
Then she’s onely mine.

To the Platonick that applies
His clear addresses onely to the mind;
The body but a Temple signifies,
Wherein the Saints inshrin’d,
To him it is all one,
Whether the walls be marble, or rough stone;
Nay, in holy places, which old time defaces,
More devotion’s shown.

_The Ghost-Song._

’Tis late and cold, stir up the fire,
Sit close, and draw the table nigher,
Be merry, and drink wine that’s old,
A hearty medicine ’gainst the cold;
Your bed[’s] of wanton down the best,
Where you may tumble to your rest:
I could well wish you wenches too,
But I am dead, and cannot do.
Call for the best, the house will ring,
Sack, White and Claret, let them bring,
And drink apace, whilst breath you have,
You’l find but cold drinking in the grave;
Partridge, Plover for your dinner,
And a Capon for the sinner,
You shall finde ready when you are up,
And your horse shall have his sup.
Welcome, welcome, shall flie round,
And I shall smile, though under ground.

_You that delight in Trulls and Minions,_
_Come buy my four ropes of St. ~Omers~ Onions._

_FINIS._

Table of First Lines

_To the Songs and Poems in_

CHOICE DROLLERY, 1656.

(NOW FIRST ADDED.)

page.

_A Maiden of the Pure Society_ 44

_A story strange I will you tell_ 31

_A Stranger coming to the town_ 16

_And will this wicked world never prove good?_ 40

_As I went to ~Totnam~_ 45

_Blacke eyes, in your dark orbs do lye_ 81

_~Cloris~, now thou art fled away_ 63

_Come, my White-head, let our Muses_ 10

_Deare Love, let me this evening dye_ 1

_Down lay the Shepheards Swain_ 65

_Drink boyes, drink boyes, drink and doe not spare_ 42

_Farre in the Forrest of ~Arden~_ 73

_Fire! Fire! O, how I burn_ 97

_Fuller of wish, than hope, methinks it is_ 62

_He that a Tinker, a Tinker, a Tinker will be_ 52

_Hide, oh hide those lovely Browes_ 53

_How happy’s that Prisoner that conquers, &c._ 93

_I keep my horse, I keep my W_ 60

_I love thee for thy curled hair_ 49

_I never did hold, all that glisters is gold_ 85

_I tell you all, both great and small_ 68

_Idol of our sex! Envy of thine own!_ 55

_If at this time I am derided_ 9

_In ~Celia~ a question did arise_ 80

_In Eighty-eight, ere I was born_ 38

_Let not, sweet saint, let not these eyes offend you_ 92

_List, you Nobles, and attend_ 20

_My Mother hath sold away her Cock_ 43

_Never was humane soule so overgrown_ 17

_No Gypsie nor no Blackamore_ 88

_Nor Love, nor Fate dare I accuse_ 4

_Oh fire, fire, fire, where?_ 33

_On the twelfth day of December_ 78

_One night the great ~Apollo~, pleas’d with ~Ben~_ 5

_Shall I think, because some clouds_ 15

_She’s not the fairest of her name_ 99

_The Chandler grew neer his end_ 72

_There is not halfe so warme a fire_ 61

_This day inlarges every narrow mind_ 48

_’Tis late and cold, stir up the fire_ 100

_’Tis not how witty, nor how free_ 98

_Trust no more a wanton Wh—_ 90

_Uds bodykins, Chill work no more_ 57

_We read of Kings, and Gods that kindly took_ 83

_What ill luck had I, silly maid that I am_ 84

_When first the magick of thine eye_ 8

_When ~James~ in Scotland first began_ 70

AN
ANTIDOTE
AGAINST
MELANCHOLY:

Made up in PILLS.

Compounded of _Witty Ballads_, _Jovial
Songs_, and _Merry Catches_.

_These witty Poems though some time [they] may seem to halt on crutches,_
_Yet they’l all merrily please you for your Charge, which not much is._

Printed by _Mer. Melancholicus_, to be sold in _London_
and _Westminster_, 1661.

[Aprill, 18.]

EDITORIAL INTRODUCTION TO THE ANTIDOTE AGAINST MELANCHOLY, 1661.

_Adalmar._—“An Antidote!
Restore him whom thy poisons have laid low.” ...

_Isbrand._—“A very good and thirsty melody;
What say you to it, my Court Poet?”

_Wolfram._—“Good melody! When I am sick o’ mornings,
With a horn-spoon tinkling my porridge pot,
’Tis a brave ballad.”

(_T. L. Beddoes: Death’s Jest Book, Acts_ iv. & v.)

§ 1. REPRINT OF AN ANTIDOTE.

Having found that sixty-five of our previous pages, in the second volume of the _Drolleries Reprint_, were filled with songs and poems that also appear in the _Antidote against Melancholy_, 1661; and that all the remaining songs and poems of the _Antidote_ (several being only obtainable therein) exceed not the compass of three additional sheets, or forty-eight pages, the Editor determined to include this valuable book. Thus in our three volumes are given four entire works, to exemplify this particular class of literature, the Cavalier Drolleries of the Restoration.[7]

To that portion of our present Appendix which is devoted to _Notes to the Antidote against Melancholy_, 1661, we refer the reader for the admirable brief Introduction written by John Payne Collier, Esq.; to whose handsome Reprint of the work we owe our first acquaintance with its pages. His knowledge of our old literature extends over nearly a century; his opportunities for inspecting private and public libraries have been peculiarly great; and he has always been most generous in communicating his knowledge to other students, showing throughout a freedom from jealousy and exclusiveness reminding us of the genial Sir Walter Scott. He states:—“We have never seen a copy of an ‘_Antidote against Melancholy_’ that was not either imperfect, or in some places illegible from dirt and rough usage, excepting the one we have employed: our single exemplar is as fresh as on the day it was issued from the press. There is an excellent and highly finished engraving on the title-page, of gentlemen and boors carousing; but as the repetition of it for our purpose would cost more than double every other expense attending our reprint, we have necessarily omitted it. The same plate was afterwards used for one of Brathwayte’s pieces; and we have seen a much worn impression of it on a Drollery near the end of the seventeenth century. It does not at all add to our knowledge of the subject of our reprint. J. P. C.”

Nevertheless, the copper-plate illustration is so good, and connects so well with the Bacchanalian and sportive character of the “_Antidote against Melancholy_,” and other _Drolleries_, that the present Editor not unwillingly takes up the graver to reproduce this frontispiece for the adornment of the volume and the service of subscribers. Our own Reprint and our engraving are made from the _perfect_ specimen contained in the Thomason Collection, and dated 1661 (with “Aprill 18” in MS.; see p. 161). We make a rule always to go to the fountain-head for our draughts, howsoever long and steep may be the ascent. Flowers and rare fossils reward us as we clamber up, and in good time other students learn to trust us, as being pains-taking and conscientiously exact. The first duty of one who aspires to be honoured as the Editor of early literature is to faithfully reproduce his text, unmutilated and undisguised. To amend it, and elucidate it, so far as lies in his power, can be done befittingly in his notes and comments, while he gives his readers a representation of the original, so nearly in _fac-simile_ as is compatible with additional beauty of typography. Throughout our labours we have held this principle steadily in view; and, whatever nobler work we may hereafter attempt, the same determination must guide us. There may be debate as to our wisdom in reproducing some questionable _facetiæ_, but there shall be none regarding our fidelity to the original text.

§ 2. INGREDIENTS OF AN “ANTIDOTE.”

A pleasant book it appeared to Cavaliers and all who were not quite strait-laced. It is almost unobjectionable, except for a few ugly words, and bears comparison honourably with “_Merry Drollery_” or “_Wit and Drollery_,” both of the same date, 1661. Unlike the former, it is almost uninfected with political rancour or impurity. It is a jovial book, that roysters and revellers loved to sing their Catches from; nay, if some laughing nymphs did not drop their eyes over its pages we are no conjurors. A vulgar phrase or two did not frighten them. Lucy Hutchinson herself, the Colonel’s Puritan wife, fires many a volley of coarse epithets without blushing; and, indeed, the Saintly Crew occasionally indulged in foul language as freely as the Malignants, though it was condoned as being theologic zeal and controversial phraseology.

In “The Ex-Ale-tation of Ale” we forgive the verbosity, for the sake of one verse on the noted Ballad-writer (see note in Appendix):—

“For _ballads_ ELDERTON never had peer;
How went his wit in them, with how merry a gale,
And with all the sails up, had he been at the Cup,
And washed his beard with a _pot of good ale_.”

We find the character of the songs to be eminently festive: almost every one could be chanted over a cup of burnt Sack, and there was not entire forgetfulness of eating: witness “The Cold Chyne,” on page 55 (our p. 148). The Love-making is seldom visible. Such glimpses as we gain of Puritans (Bishop Corbet’s Hot-headed Zealot, Cleveland’s “Rotundos rot,”) are only suggestive of playful ridicule. The Sectaries, being no longer dangerous, are here laughed at, not calumniated. The odd jumble of nations brought together in those disturbed times is seen in the crowd of lovers around the “blith Lass of Falkland town” (p. 133) who is constant in her love of a Scottish blue bonnet:—“_If ever I have a man, blew-Cap for me!_” But, sitting at ease once more, not hunted into bye-ways or exile, and with enough of ready cash to wipe off tavern scores, or pay for braver garments than were lately flapping in the wind, the Cavaliers recall the exploits of their patron-saint, “St. George for England,” the gay wedding of Lord Broghill, as described by Sir John Suckling in 1641, the still noisier marriage of Arthur o’ Bradley, or that imaginary banquet afforded to the Devil, by Ben Jonson’s Cook Lorrell, in the Peak of Derbyshire. Early contrasts, drawn by their own grandsires, between the Old Courtier of Queen Elizabeth and the New Courtier of King James, are welcomed to remembrance. They forgive “Old Noll,” while ridiculing his image as “The Brewer,” and they repeat the earlier Ulysses song of the “Blacksmith,” by Dr. James Smith, if only for its chorus, “Which no body can deny.” The grave solemnity wherewith Dr. Wilde’s “Combat of Cocks” was told; the light-hearted buffoonery of “Sir Eglamore’s Fight with the Dragon;” the spluttering grimaces of Ben Jonson’s “Welchman’s praise of Wales;” and the sustained humour as well as enthusiasm of Dr. Henry Edwards’s “On the Vertue of Sack” (“Fetch me Ben Jonson’s scull,” &c.), are all crowned by the musical outburst of “The Green Gown:”—

“Pan leave piping, the Gods have done feasting,
There’s never a goddess a hunting to-day,” &c.

(see Appendix to _Westminster Drollery_, p. liv.) Our readers may thus additionally enjoy a full-flavoured bumper of the “_Antidote against Melancholy_.”

J. W. E.

August, 1875.

_To the Reader._

There’s no Purge ’gainst _Melancholly_,
But with _Bacchus_ to be jolly:
All else are but Dreggs of Folly.

_Paracelsus_ wanted skill
When he sought to cure that Ill:
No _Pectorals_ like the _Poets_ quill.

Here are _Pills_ of every sort,
For the _Country_, _City_, _Court_,
Compounded and made up of sport.

If ’gainst _Sleep_ and _Fumes_ impure,
Thou, thy _Senses_ would’st secure;
Take this, Coffee’s not half so sure.

Want’st thou _Stomack_ to thy Meat,
And would’st fain restore the heat,
This does it more than _Choccolet_.

Cures the _Spleen_[,] Revives the _blood_[,]
Puts thee in a _Merry_ Mood:
Who can deny such _Physick_ good?

Nothing like to Harmeles _Mirth_,
’Tis a Cordiall On earth
That gives _Society_ a Birth.

Then be wise, and buy, not borrow,
Keep an _Ounce_ still for to Morrow,
Better than a _pound_ of _Sorrow_.

N. D.

_Ballads, Songs, and Catches in this Book._

Original: Our
page. vols, page

1. The Exaltation of a _Pot of Good Ale_, 1 iii. 113

2. The Song of _Cook-Lawrel_, by Ben Johnson 9 ii. 214

3. The Ballad of _The Black-smith_, 11 225

4. The Ballad of _Old Courtier and the New_ 14 iii. 125

5. The Ballad of the Wedding of _Arthur of Bradley_, 16 ii. 312

6. The Ballad of the _Green Gown_, 20 i. Ap. 54

7. The Ballad of the _Gelding of the Devil_, 21 ii. 200

8. The Ballad of _Sir Eglamore_, 25 257

9. The Ballad of _St. George for England_, 26 iii. 129

10. The Ballad of _Blew Cap for me_, 29 133

11. The Ballad of the _Several Caps_, 31 135

12. The Ballad of the _Noses_, 33 ii. 143

13. The Song of the _Hot-headed Zealot_, 35 234

14. The Song of the _Schismatick Rotundos_, 37 iii. 139

15. A Glee in praise of _Wine_ [_Let souldiers_], 39 ii. 218

16. Sir John Sucklin’s Ballad of the _Ld. L. Wedding_. 40 101

17. The _Combat of Cocks_, 44 242

18. The _Welchman’s prayse of Wales_, 47 iii. 141

19. The _Cavaleer’s Complaint_ [and _Answer_], 49 ii. 52

20. Three several Songs in praise of _Sack_
[: _Old Poets Hipocrin_, &c. 52 iii. 143
_Hang the Presbyter’s Gill_, 53 144
_’Tis Wine that inspires_, 54 145
[A Glee to the Vicar, W.D. Int.
[On a Cold Chyne of Beef, 55 iii. 146
[A Song of _Cupid_ Scorned, 56 147

21. On the _Vertue of Sack_, by Dr. Hen. Edwards 57 ii. 293

22. The _Medly of Nations_, to several tunes, 59 127

23. The Ballad of the Brewer, 62 221

24. A Collection of 40 [34] more Merry
Catches and Songs. 65-76 iii. 149
[Of these 34, ten are given in Merry
Drollery, Complete, on pages 296, 304,
308, 232, 337, 300, 280, 318, 348, and 341.
The others are added in this volume iii. 52

Pills to Purge Melancholly.

[p. 1.]

_The Ex-Ale-tation of ALE._

Not drunken, nor sober, but neighbour to both,
I met with a friend in _Ales-bury_ Vale;
He saw by my Face, that I was in the Case
To speak no great harm of a _Pot of good Ale_.

Then did he me greet, and said, since we meet
(And he put me in mind of the name of the Dale)
For _Ales-burys_ sake some pains I would take,
And not _bury_ the praise of a _Pot of good Ale_.

The more to procure me, then he did adjure me
If the _Ale_ I drank last were nappy and stale,
To do it its right, and stir up my sprite,
And fall to commend a _pot_ [_of good ale_]. [_passim._]

Quoth I, To commend it I dare not begin,
Lest therein my Credit might happen to fail;
For, many men now do count it a sin,
But once to look toward a _pot of good ale_.

Yet I care not a pin, For I see no such sin,
Nor any thing else my courage to quail:
For, this we do find, that take it in kind,
Much vertue there is in a _pot of good ale_.

And I mean not to taste, though thereby much grac’t,
Nor the _Merry-go-down_ without pull or hale,
Perfuming the throat, when the stomack’s afloat,
With the Fragrant sweet scent of a _pot of good ale_.

Nor yet the delight that comes to the _Sight_
To see how it flowers and mantles in graile,
As green as a _Leeke_, with a smile in the cheek,
The true Orient colour of a _pot of good ale_.

But I mean the _Mind_, and the good it doth find,
Not onely the _Body_ so feeble and fraile;
For, _Body_ and _Soul_ may blesse the _black bowle_,
Since both are beholden to a _Pot of good ale_.

For, when _heavinesse_ the mind doth oppresse,
And _sorrow_ and _grief_ the heart do assaile,
No remedy quicker than to take off your Liquor,
And to wash away _cares_ with a _pot of good ale_.

The _Widow_ that buried her Husband of late,
Will soon have forgotten to weep and to waile,
And think every day twain, till she marry again,
If she read the contents of a _pot of good ale_.

It is like a _belly-blast_ to a _cold heart_,
And warms and engenders the _spirits vitale_:
To keep them from domage all sp’rits owe their homage
To the _Sp’rite of the buttery_, a _pot of good ale_.

And down to the _legs_ the vertue doth go,
And to a bad _Foot-man_ is as good as a _saile_:
When it fill the Veins, and makes light the Brains,
No _Lackey_ so nimble as a _pot of good ale_.

The naked complains not for want of a coat,
Nor on the cold weather will once turn his taile;
All the way as he goes, he cuts the wind with his Nose,
If he be but well wrapt in a _pot of good ale_.

The hungry man takes no thought for his meat,
Though his stomack would brook a _ten-penny_ naile;
He quite forgets hunger, thinks on it no longer,
If he touch but the sparks of a _pot of good ale_.

The _Poor man_ will praise it, so hath he good cause,
That all the year eats neither _Partridge_ nor _Quaile_,
But sets up his rest, and makes up his Feast,
With a crust of _brown bread_, and a _pot of good ale_.

The _Shepherd_, the _Sower_, the _Thresher_, the _Mower_,
The one with his _Scythe_, the other with his _Flaile_,
Take them out by the poll, on the peril of my soll,
All will hold up their hands to a _pot of good ale_.

The _Black-Smith_, whose bellows all Summer do blow,
With the fire in his Face still, without e’re a vaile,
Though his throat be full dry, he will tell you no lye,
But where you may be sure of a _pot of good ale_.

Who ever denies it, the Pris’ners will prayse it,
That beg at [the] Grate, and lye in the _Goale_,
For, even in their _fetters_ they thinke themselves better,
May they get but a two-penny black _pot of Ale_.

The begger, whose portion is alwayes his prayers,
Not having a tatter to hang on his taile,
Is rich in his rags, as the churle in his bags,
If he once but shakes hands with a _pot of good ale_.

It drives his poverty clean out of mind,
Forgetting his _brown bread_, his _wallet_, and _maile_;
He walks in the house like a _six footed Louse_,
If he once be inricht with a _pot of good ale_.

And he that doth _dig_ in the _ditches_ all day,
And wearies himself quite at the _plough-taile_,
Will speak no less things than of _Queens_ and of _Kings_,
If he touch but the top of a _pot of good ale_.

’Tis like a Whetstone to a _blunt wit_,
And makes a supply where Nature doth fail:
The dullest wit soon will look quite through the Moon,
If his temples be wet with a _pot of good ale_.

Then DICK to his _Dearling_, full boldly dares speak,
Though before (silly Fellow) his courage did quaile,
He gives her the _smouch_, with his hand on his pouch,
If he meet by the way with a _pot of good ale_.

And it makes the _Carter_ a _Courtier_ straight-way;
With Rhetorical termes he will tell his tale;
With _courtesies_ great store, and his Cap up before,
Being school’d but a little with a _pot of good ale_.

The _Old man_, whose tongue wags faster than his teeth,
(For old age by Nature doth drivel and drale)
Will frig and will fling, like a Dog in a string,
If he warm his cold blood with a _pot of good ale_.

And the good _Old Clarke_, whose sight waxeth dark,
And ever he thinks the Print is to[o] small,
He will see every Letter, and say Service better,
If he glaze but his eyes with a _pot of good ale_.

The _cheekes_ and the _jawes_ to commend it have cause;
For where they were late but even wan and pale,
They will get them a colour, no _crimson_ is fuller,
By the true die and tincture of a _pot of good ale_.

Mark her Enemies, though they think themselves wise,
How _meager_ they look, with how low a waile,
How their cheeks do fall, without sp’rits at all,
That alien their minds from a _pot of good ale_.

And now that the grains do work in my brains,
Me thinks I were able to give by retaile
Commodities store, a dozen and more,
That flow to Mankind from a _pot of good ale_.

The MUSES would muse any should it misuse:
For it makes them to sing like a _Nightingale_,
With a lofty trim note, having washed their throat
With the _Caballine_ Spring of a _pot of good ale_. [? Castalian]

And the _Musician_ of any condition,
It will make him reach to the top of his _Scale_:
It will clear his pipes, and moisten his lights,
If he drink _alternatim_ a _pot of good ale_.

The _Poet_ Divine, that cannot reach Wine,
Because that his money doth many times faile,
Will hit on the vein to make a good strain,
If he be but _inspir’d_ with a _pot of good ale_.

For _ballads_ ELDERTON never had Peer;
How went his wit in them, with how merry a Gale,
And with all the Sails up, had he been at the Cup,
And washed his beard with a _pot of good ale_.

And the power of it showes, no whit less in _Prose_,
It will file one’s Phrase, and set forth his Tale:
Fill him but a Bowle, it will make his Tongue troul,
For _flowing speech_ flows from a _pot of good ale_.

And _Master Philosopher_, if he drink his part,
Will not trifle his time in the _huske_ or the _shale_,
But go to the _kernell_ by the depth of his Art,
To be found in the bottom of a _pot of good ale_.

Give a _Scholar_ of OXFORD a pot of _Sixteen_,
And put him to prove that an _Ape_ hath no _taile_,
And sixteen times better his wit will be seen,
If you fetch him from _Botley_ a _pot of good ale_.

Thus it helps _Speech_ and _Wit_: and it hurts not a whit,
But rather doth further the _Virtues Morale_;
Then think it not much if a little I touch
The good moral parts of a _pot of good ale_.

To the _Church_ and _Religion_ it is a good Friend,
Or else our Fore-Fathers their wisedome did faile,
That at every mile, next to the _Church_ stile,
Set a _consecrate house_ to a _pot of good ale_.

But now, as they say, _Beer_ bears it away;
The more is the pity, if right might prevaile:
For, with this same _Beer_, came up _Heresie_ here,
The old _Catholicke drink_ is a _pot of good ale_.

The _Churches_ much ow[e], as we all do know,
For when they be drooping and ready to fall,
By a _Whitson_ or _Church-ale_, up again they shall go,
And owe their _repairing_ to a _pot of good ale_.

_Truth_ will do it right, it brings _Truth_ to light,
And many bad matters it helps to reveal:
For, they that will drink, will speak what they think:
TOM _tell-troth_ lies hid in a _pot of good ale_.

It is _Justices_ Friend, she will it commend,
For all is here served by _measure_ and _tale_;
Now, _true-tale_ and _good measure_ are _Justices_ treasure,
And much to the praise of a _pot of good ale_.

And next I alledge, it is _Fortitudes_ edge[,]
For a very Cow-heard, that shrinks like a Snaile,
Will swear and will swagger, and out goes his Dagger,
If he be but arm’d with a _pot of good ale_.

Yea, ALE hath her _Knights_ and _Squires_ of Degree,
That never wore Corslet, nor yet shirts of Maile,
But have fought their fights all, twixt the pot and the wall,
When once they were dub’d with a _pot of good ale_.

And sure it will make a man suddenly _wise_,
Er’e-while was scarce able to tell a right tale:
It will open his jaw, he will tell you the _Law_,
As make a right _Bencher_ of a _pot of good ale_.

Or he that will make a _bargain_ to gain,
In _buying_ or _setting_ his goods forth to _sale_,
Must not plod in the mire, but sit by the fire,
And seale up his Match with a _pot of good ale_.

But for _Soberness_, needs must I confess,
The matter goes hard; and few do prevaile
Not to go too deep, but _temper_ to keep,
Such is the _Attractive_ of a _pot of good ale_.

But here’s an amends, which will make all Friends,
And ever doth tend to the best availe:
If you take it too deep, it will make you but sleep;
So comes no great harm of a _pot of good ale_.

If (reeling) they happen to fall to the ground,
The fall is not great, they may hold by the Raile:
If into the water, they cannot be drown’d,
For that gift is given to a _pot of good ale_.

If drinking about they chance to fall out,
Fear not that _Alarm_, though flesh be but fraile;
It will prove but some blowes, or at most a bloody nose,
And Friends again straight with a _pot of good ale_.

And _Physic_ will favour ALE, as it is bound,
And be against _Beere_ both tooth and naile;
They send up and down, all over the town
To get for their Patients a _pot of good ale_.

Their _Ale-berries_, _cawdles_, and _Possets_ each one,
And _Syllabubs_ made at the Milking-pale,
Although they be many, _Beere_ comes not in any,
But all are composed with a _pot of good ale_.

And in very deed the _Hop’s_ but a Weed,
Brought o’re against Law, and here set to sale:
Would the Law were renew’d, and no more _Beer_ brew’d,
But all men betake them to a _Pot of good ale_.

The _Law_ that will take it under his wing,
For, at every _Law-day_, or _Moot of the hale_,
One is sworn to serve our _Soveraigne_ the KING,
In the ancient _Office_ of a CONNER of ALE.

There’s never a Lord of _Mannor_ or of a Town,
By strand or by land, by hill or by dale,
But thinks it a _Franchise_, and a _Flow’r_ of the CROWN,
To hold the _Assize_ of a _pot of good ale_.

And though there lie _Writs_ from the _Courts Paramount_,
To stay the proceedings of _Courts Paravaile_;
_Law_ favours it so, you may come, you may go,
There lies no _Prohibition_ to a _pot of good ale_.

They talk much of _State_, both early and late,
But if _Gascoign_ and _Spain_ their _Wine_ should but faile,
No remedy then, with us _Englishmen_,
But the _State_ it must stand by a _pot of good ale_.

And they that sit by it are good men and quiet,
No dangerous _Plotters_ in the Common-weale
Of _Treason_ and _Murder_: For they never go further
Than to call for, and pay for a _pot of good ale_.

To the praise of GAMBRIVIUS that good _Brittish King_
That devis’d for his Nation (by the _Welshmen’s_ tale)
Seventeen hundred years before CHRIST did spring,
The happy invention of a _pot of good ale_.

The _North_ they will praise it, and praise with passion,
Where every _River_ gives name to a _Dale_:
There men are yet living that are of th’ old fashion,
No _Nectar_ they know but a _pot of good ale_.

The PICTS and the SCOTS for ALE were at lots,
So high was the skill, and so kept under seale;
The PICTS were undone, slain each mothers son,
For not teaching the SCOTS to make _Hether Eale_.

But hither or thither, it skils not much whether:
For Drink must be had, men live not by _Keale_,
Not by _Havor-bannocks_ nor by _Havor-jannocks_,
The thing the SCOTS live on is a _pot of good ale_.

Now, if ye will say it, I will not denay it,
That many a man it brings to his bale:
Yet what fairer end can one wish to his Friend,
Th an to dye by the part of a _pot of good ale_.

Yet let not the innocent bear any blame,
It is their own doings to break o’re the pale:
And neither the _Malt_, nor the good wife in fault,
If any be potted with a _pot of good ale_.

They tell whom it kills, but say not a word,
How many a man liveth both sound and hale,
Though he drink no _Beer_ any day in the year,
By the _Radical humour_ of a _pot of good ale_.

But to speak of _Killing_, that am I not willing,
For that in a manner were but to raile:
But _Beer_ hath its name, ’cause it brings to the _Biere_,
Therefore well-fare, say I, to a _pot of good ale_.

Too many (I wis) with their deaths proved this,
And, therefore (if ancient Records do not faile),
He that first brew’d the _Hop_ was rewarded with a _rope_,
And found his _Beer_ far more _bitter_ than ALE.

O ALE[!] _ab alendo_, the _Liquor_ of LIFE,
That I had but a mouth as big as a _Whale_!
For mine is too little to touch the least tittle
That belongs to the praise of a _pot of good ale_.

Thus (I trow) some _Vertues_ I have mark’d you out,
And never a _Vice_ in all this long traile,
But that after the _Pot_ there cometh the _Shot_,
And that’s th’ onely _blot_ of a _pot of good ale_.—

With that my Friend said, that _blot_ will I bear,
You have done very well, it is time to strike saile,
Wee’l have six pots more, though I dye on the score,
To make all this good of a _Pot of good ALE_.

[Followed by Ben Jonson’s Cook Lorrel, and by The Blacksmith: for which see _Merry Drollery, Complete_, pp. 214-17, 225-30.]

[p. 14.]

_An Old Song of an Old Courtier and a New._

With an Old Song made by an Old Ancient pate,
Of an Old worshipful Gentleman who had a great Estate;
Who kept an old house at a bountiful rate,
And an old Porter to relieve the Poore at his Gate,
_Like an old Courtier of the Queens_.

With an old Lady whose anger and [? one] good word asswages,
Who every quarter payes her old Servants their wages,
Who never knew what belongs to Coachmen, Footmen, & Pages,
But kept twenty thrifty old Fellows, with blew-coats and badges,
_Like an old Courtier of the Queens_.

With an old Study fill’d full of Learned books,
With an old Reverent Parson, you may judge him by his looks,
With an old Buttery hatch worn quite off the old hooks,
And an old Kitching, which maintains half a dozen old cooks;
_Like an old Courtier of the Queens_.

With an old Hall hung round about with Guns, Pikes, and Bowes,
With old swords & bucklers, which hath born[e] many shrew’d blows,
And an old Frysadoe coat to cover his Worships trunk hose,
And a cup of old Sherry to comfort his Copper Nose;
_Like an old Courtier of the Queens_.

With an old Fashion, when _Christmas_ is come,
To call in his Neighbours with Bag-pipe and Drum,
And good chear enough to furnish every old Room,
And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and a wise man dumb;
_like an Old_ [_Courtier of the Queens_.]

With an old Hunts-man, a Falkoner, and a Kennel of Hounds;
Which never Hunted, nor Hawked but in his own Grounds;
Who like an old wise man kept himself within his own bounds,
And when he died gave every child a thousand old pounds;
_like an Old_ [_Courtier of the Queens_.]

But to his eldest Son his house and land he assign’d,
Charging him in his Will to keep the same bountiful mind,
To be good to his Servants, and to his Neighbours kind,
But in th’ ensuing Ditty you shall hear how he was enclin’d;
_like a young Courtier of the Kings_.

[Part Second.]

Like a young Gallant newly come to his Land,
That keeps a brace of Creatures at’s own command,
And takes up a thousand pounds upon’s own Band,
And lieth drunk in a new Tavern, till he can neither go nor stand;
_like a young_ [_Courtier of the Kings_].

With a neat Lady that is fresh and fair,
Who never knew what belong’d to good housekeeping or care,
But buyes several Fans to play with the wanton ayre,
And seventeen or eighteen dressings of other womens haire;
_like a young_ [_Courtier of the Kings_].

With a new Hall built where the old one stood,
Wherein is burned neither coale nor wood,
And a new Shuffel-board-table where never meat stood,
Hung Round with Pictures, which doth the poor little good.
_like a young_ [_Courtier of the Kings_].

With a new study stuff’t full of Pamphlets and playes,
With a new Chaplin, that swears faster then he prayes,
With a new Buttery hatch that opens once in four or five dayes,
With a new _French-Cook_ to make Kickshawes and Tayes;
_like a young Courtier of the Kings_.

With a new Fashion, when _Christmasse_ is come,
With a journey up to _London_ we must be gone,
And leave no body at home but our new Porter _John_,
Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone;
_Like a young_ [_Courtier of the Kings_].

With a Gentleman-Vsher whose carriage is compleat,
With a Footman, a Coachman, a Page to carry meat,
With a waiting Gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat,
Who when the master hath dyn’d gives the servants litle meat;
_Like a young_ [_Courtier of the Kings_].

With a new honour bought with his Fathers Old Gold,
That many of his Fathers Old Manors hath sold,
And this is the occasion that most men do hold,
That good Hous[e]-keeping is now-a-dayes grown so cold;
_Like a young Courtier of the Kings_.

[Here follow, Arthur of Bradley (see _Merry Drollery, Compleat_, p. 312); The Green Gown: “Pan leave piping,” (see _Westm. Droll._, Appendix, p. 54); Gelding of the Devil: “Now listen a while, and I will you tell” (see _Merry D., C._, p. 200); Sir Egle More (_ibid_, p. 257); and St. George for England (_ibid_, p. 309). But, as the variations are great, in the last of these, it is here given from the _Antidote ag. Mel._, p. 26.]

[p. 26.]

_The Ballad of St. George for England._

Why should we boast of _Arthur_ and his Knights?
Know[ing] how many men have perform’d fights;
Or why should we speak of Sir _Lancelot du Lake_,
Or Sir _Trestram du Leon_, that fought for the Lady’s sake;
Read old storyes, and there you’l see
How St. _George_, St. _George_, did make the Dragon flee:
St. _George_ he was for _England_, St. _Denis_ was for _France_,
Sing _Hony soitt qui Mal y pense_.

To speak of the Monarchy, it were two Long to tell;
And likewise of the _Romans_, how far they did excel,
_Hannibal_ and _Scipio_, they many a field did fight;
_Orlando Furioso_ he was a valiant Knight;
_Romulus_ and _Rhemus_ were those that ROME did build,
But St. _George_, St. _George_, the Dragon he hath kill’d;
St. _George_ he was, _&c._

_Jephtha_ and _Gidion_ they led their men to fight
The _Gibeonites_ and _Amonites_, they put them all to flight;
Hercul’es Labour was in the Vale of Brass,
And _Sampson_ slew a thousand with the Jaw-bone of an Asse,
And when he was blind pull’d the Temple to the ground:
But St. _George_, St. _George_, the Dragon did confound.
St. _George_ he was, _&c._

_Valentine_ and _Orson_ they came of _Pipins_ blood,
_Alphred_ and _Aldrecus_ they were brave Knights and good,
The four sons of _Amnon_ that fought with _Charlemaine_,
Sir _Hugh de Burdeaux_ and _Godfray_ of _Bolaigne_,
These were all _French_ Knights the _Pagans_ did Convert,
But St. _George_, St. _George_, pull’d forth the Dragon’s heart:
St. _George_ he was, _&c._

_Henry_ the fifth he Conquered all _France_,
He quartered their Armes, his Honour to advance,
He razed their Walls, and pull’d their Cities down,
And garnished his Head with a double treble Crown;
He thumbed the _French_, and after home he came!
But St. _George_, St. _George_, he made the Dragon _tame_:
St. _George_ he was, _&c._

St. _David_ you know, loves _Leeks_ and tosted _Cheese_,
And _Jason_ was the Man, brought home the _Golden_ Fleece;
St. _Patrick_ you know he was St. _Georges_ Boy,
Seven years he kept his Horse, and then stole him away,
For which Knavish act, a slave he doth remain;
But St. _George_, St. _George_, he hath the Dragon slain:
St. _George_ he was, &c.

_Tamberline_, the Emperour, in Iron Cage did Crown,
With his bloody Flag’s display’d before the Town;
_Scanderbag_ magnanimous _Mahomets Bashaw_ did dread,
Whose Victorious Bones were worn when he was dead;
His _Bedlerbegs_, his Corn like drags, _George Castriot_ was he call’d,
But St. _George_, St. _George_, the Dragon he hath maul’d:
St. _George_ he was for _England_, St. _Denis_ was for _France_,
Sing _Hony soit qui mal y pense_.

_Ottoman_, the _Tartar_, _Cham_ of _Persia’s_ race,
The great _Mogul_, with his Chests so full of all his Cloves and Mace,
The _Grecian_ youth _Bucephalus_ he manly did bestride,
But those with all their Worthies Nine, St. _George_ did them deride,
_Gustavus Adolphus_ was _Swedelands_ Warlike King,
But St. _George_, St. _George_, pull’d forth the Dragon’s sting.
St. _George_ he was for _England_, St. _Dennis_ was for _France_,
Sing _Hony soit qui mal y pense_.

_Pendragon_ and _Cadwallader_ of _British_ blood doe boast,
Though _John_ of _Gant_ his foes did daunt, St. _George_ shal rule the
roast;
_Agamemnon_ and _Cleomedon_ and _Macedon_ did feats,
But, compared to our Champion, they were but merely cheats;
Brave _Malta_ Knights in _Turkish_ fights, their brandisht swords
out-drew,
But St. _George_ met the Dragon, and ran him through and through:
St. _George_ he was, &c.

_Bidea_, the Amazon, _Photius_ overthrew,
As fierce as either _Vandal_, _Goth_, _Saracen_, or _Jew_;
The potent _Holophernes_, as he lay in his bed,
In came wise _Judith_ and subtly stool[e] his head;
Brave _Cyclops_ stout, with _Jove_ he fought, Although he showr’d down
Thunder;
But St. _George_ kill’d the Dragon, and was not that a wonder:
St. _George_ he was, &c.

_Mark Anthony_, Ile warrant you Plaid feats with _Egypts_ Queen,
Sir _Egla More_ that valiant Knight, the like was never seen,
Grim _Gorgons_ might, was known in fight, old _Bevis_ most men frighted,
The _Myrmidons_ & _Presbyter John_, why were not those men knighted?
Brave _Spinola_ took in _Breda_, _Nasaw_ did it recover,
But St. _George_, St. _George_, he turn’d the Dragon over and over:
St. _George_ he was for _England_, St. _Denis_ was for _France_,
Sing, _Hony soit qui mal y pense_.

_A Ballad ~call’d~ Blew Cap for me._

Come hither thou merriest of all the Nine, [p. 29.]
Come, sit you down by me, and let us be jolly;
And with a full Cup of _Apollo’s_ wine,
Wee’l dare our Enemy mad Melancholly;
And when we have done, wee’l between us devise
A pleasant new Dity by Art to comprise:
And of this new Dity the matter shall be,
_If ever I have a man, blew cap for me_.

There dwells a blith Lass in _Falkland_ Town
And she hath Suitors I know not how many,
And her resolution she had set down
That she’l have a _Blew Cap_, if ever she have any.
An _Englishman_ when our geod Knight was there,
Came often unto her, and loved her dear,
Yet still she replyed, Geod Sir, La be,
_If ever I have a man, blew cap for me_.

A _Welchman_ that had a long Sword by his side,
Red Doublet, red Breech, and red Coat, and red Peard,
Was made a great shew of a great deal of pride,
Was tell her strange tales te like never heard;
Was recon her pedegree long pefore _Prute_[,]
No body was near that could her Confute;
But still she reply’d, Geod Sir la be,
_If ever I have a man, blew Cap for me_.

A _Frenchman_ that largely was booted and spurr’d,
Long Lock with a ribbon, long points and long preeshes,
Was ready to kisse her at every word,
And for the other exercises his fingers itches;
You be prety wench _a Metrel, par ma Foy_,
Dear me do love you, be not so coy;
Yet still replyed, Geod Sir, la be;
_If ever I have a man, blew Cap for me_.

An _Irishman_, with a long skeen in his Hose,
Did think to obtain her, it was no great matter,
Up stairs to the chamber so lightly he goes,
That she never heard him until he came at her,
Quoth he, I do love thee, by Fait and by Trot,
And if thou wilt know it, experience shall sho’t,
Yet still she reply’d, Geod sir, la be,
_If ever I have a man, blew Cap for me_.

A _Netherland_ Mariner came there by chance,
Whose cheekes did resemble two rosting pome-watters,
And to this Blith lasse this sute did advance;
Experience had taught him to cog, lie, and flatter;
Quoth he, I will make thee sole Lady of the sea,
Both _Spanyard_ and _English_ man shall thee obey:
Yet still she replyed, [Geod sir, La be,
_If ever I have a man, blew cap for me_].

At last came a _Scotchman_ with a _blew Cap_,
And that was the man for whom she had tarryed,
To get this Blyth lass it was his Giud hap,
They gan to _Kirk_ and were presently married;
She car’d not whether he were Lord or Leard,
She call’d him sick a like name as I ne’r heard,
To get him from aw she did well agree,
And still she cryed, _blew Cap_ thou art welcome to mee.

[p. 30.]

_The Ballad of the Caps._

The Wit hath long beholding been
Unto the Cap to keep it in;
But now the wits fly out amain,
In prayse to quit the Cap again;
The Cap that keeps the highest part
Obtains the place by due desert:
_For any Cap, &c._ [_what ere it bee,_
_Is still the signe of some degree._]

The _Monmouth_ Cap, the Saylors thrumbe,
And that wherein the Tradesmen come,
The Physick Cap, the Cap Divine,
And that which Crownes the Muses nine,
The Cap that fooles do Countenance,
The goodly Cap of Maintenance.
_For any Cap, &c._

The sickly Cap both plain and wrought,
The Fudling cap, how ever bought,
The worsted, Furr’d, the Velvet, Sattin,
For which so many pates learn Latin;
The Cruel cap, the Fustian Pate,
The Perewig, a Cap of late:
_For any Cap, &c._

The Souldiers that the _Monmoth_ wear,
On Castles tops their Ensigns rear;
The Sea-man with his Thrumb doth stand
On higher parts then all the Land;
The Tradesmans Cap aloft is born,
By vantage of a stately horn.
_For any Cap, &c._

The Physick Cap to dust can bring
Without controul the greatest King:
The Lawyers Cap hath Heavenly might
To make a crooked action straight;
And if you’l line him in the fist,
The Cause hee’l warrant as he list.
_For any Cap, &c._

Both East and West, and North and South,
Where ere the Gospel hath a mouth
The Cap Divine doth thither look:
Tis Square like Scholars and their Books:
The rest are Round, but this is Square
To shew their Wits more stable are:
_For any Cap, &c._

The Jester he a Cap doth wear,
Which makes him Fellow for a Peer,
And ’tis no slender piece of Wit
To act the Fool, where great Men sit,
But O, the Cap of _London_ Town!
I wis, ’tis like a goodly Crown.
_For any Cap, &c._

The sickly Cap[,] though wrought with silk,
Is like repentance, white as milk;
When Caps drop off at health apace,
The Cap doth then your head uncase,
The sick mans Cap (if wrought can tell)
Though he be sick, his cap is well.
_For any Cap, &c._