Chapter VI: Appendix: OF NOTES, &c., ARRANGED IN FOUR PARTS (4)

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The fudling Cap by _Bacchus_ Might,
Turns night to day, and day to night;
We know it makes proud heads to bend,
The Lowly feet for to Ascend:
It makes men richer then before,
By seeing doubly all their score.
_For any Cap, &c._

The furr’d and quilted Cap of age
Can make a mouldy proverb sage,
The Satin and the Velvet hive
Into a Bishoprick may thrive,
The Triple Cap may raise some hope,
If fortune serve, to be a Pope;
_For any Cap, &c._

The Perewig, O, this declares
The rise of flesh, though fall of haires,
And none but Grandsiers can proceed
So far in sin, till they this need,
Before the King who covered are,
And only to themselves stand bare.
_For any Cap, what ere it bee,_
_Is still the signe of some degree._

[Next follow A Ballad of the Nose (see _Merry Drollery, Compleat_, p. 143), and A Song of the Hot-headed Zealot: _to the tune of “~Tom a Bedlam~”_ (Dr. Richard Corbet’s, _Ibid_, p. 234).]

[p. 37.]

_A Song On the Schismatick Rotundos._

Once I a curious Eye did fix,
To observe the tricks
Of the _schismatics_ of the Times,
To find out which of them
Was the merriest Theme,
And best would befit my Rimes.
_Arminius_ I found solid,
_Socinians_ were not stolid,
Much Learning for Papists did stickle.
_But ah, ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ~Rotundos~ rot,_
_Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ~Rotundos~ rot,_
_’Tis you that my spleen doth tickle._

And first to tell must not be forgot,
How I once did trot
With a great Zealot to a Lecture,
Where I a Tub did view,
Hung with apron blew:
’Twas the Preachers, as I conjecture.
His life and his Doctrine too
Were of no other hue,
Though he spake in a tone most mickle;
_But ah, ha, ha, ha, &c._

He taught amongst other prety things
That the Book of _Kings_
Small benefit brings to the godly,
Beside he had some grudges
At the Book of _Judges_,
And talkt of _Leviticus_ odly.
_Wisedome_ most of all
He declares _Apocryphal_,
Beat _Bell_ and the _Dragon_ like _Michel_:
_But, ah, ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, &c._

Gainst Humaine Learning next he enveyes
and most boldly say’s,
’Tis that which destroyes Inspiration:
Let superstitious sence
And wit be banished hence,
With Popish Predomination:
Cut _Bishops_ down in hast,
And _Cathedrals_ as fast
As corn that’s fit for the sickle:
_But ah, ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ~Rotundos~, rot,_
_ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ~Rotundos~ rot,_
_’Tis you that my spleen doth tickle._

[The three next in the _Antidote_, respectively by Aurelian Townshend (?), Sir John Suckling, and “by T. R.” (or Dr. Thomas Wild?), are to be found also in our _Merry Drollery, Compleat_, pp. 218, 101, and 242. See Appendix Notes.]

[p. 47.]

_The Welshmans Song, in praise of Wales._

I’s not come here to tauke of _Prut_,
From whence the _Welse_ dos take hur root;
Nor tell long Pedegree of Prince _Camber_,
Whose linage would fill full a Chamber,
Nor sing the deeds of ould Saint _Davie_,
The Ursip of which would fill a Navie,
But hark me now for a liddell tales
Sall make a great deal to the creddit of _Wales_:
For her will tudge your eares,
With the praise of hur thirteen Seers,
And make you as clad and merry,
As fourteen pot of Perry.

’Tis true, was wear him Sherkin freize,
But what is that? we have store of seize, [_i.e._ cheese,]
And Got is plenty of Goats milk
That[,] sell him well[,] will buy him silk
Inough, to make him fine to quarrell
At _Herford_ Sizes in new apparrell;
And get him as much green Melmet perhap,
Sall give it a face to his Monmouth Cap.
But then the ore of _Lemster_;
Py Cot is uver a Sempster;
That when he is spun, or did[,]
Yet match him with hir thrid.

Aull this the backs now, let us tell yee,
Of some provision for the belly:
As Kid and Goat, and great Goats Mother,
And Runt and Cow, and good Cows uther.
And once but tast on the Welse Mutton,
Your _Englis_ Seeps not worth a button.
And then for your Fisse, shall choose it your disse,
Look but about, and there is a Trout,
A Salmon, Cot, or Chevin,
Will feed you six or seven,
As taull man as ever swagger
With _Welse_ Club, and long dagger.

But all this while, was never think
A word in praise of our _Welse_ drink:
And yet for aull that, is a Cup of _Bragat_,
Aull _England_ Seer may cast his Cap at.
And what say you to Ale of _Webly_[?],
Toudge him as well, you’ll praise him trebly,
As well as _Metheglin_, or _Syder_, or _Meath_,
Sall sake it your dagger quite out o’ th seath.
And Oat-Cake of _Guarthenion_,
With a goodly Leek or Onion,
To give as sweet a rellis
As e’r did Harper _Ellis_.

And yet is nothing now all this,
If our Musicks we do misse;
Both Harps, and Pipes too; and the Crowd
Must aull come in, and tauk aloud,
As lowd as _Bangu_, _Davies_ Bell,
Of which is no doubt you have hear tell:
As well as our lowder _Wrexam_ Organ,
And rumbling Rocks in the Seer of _Glamorgan_;
Where look but in the ground there,
And you sall see a sound there:
That put her all to gedder,
Is sweet as measure pedder.

[Followed, in _An Antidote_, by the excellent poems, The Cavalier’s Complaint; to the tune of (Suckling’s) _I’le tell thee, Dick, &c._, with The Answer. For these, see _Merry Drollery, Compleat_, pp. 52-56, and 367.]:

[p. 52.]

_On a Pint of SACK._

Old poets Hipocrin admire,
And pray to water to inspire
Their wit and Muse with heavenly fire;
Had they this Heav’nly Fountain seen,
Sack both their Well and Muse had been,
And this Pint-pot their Hipocrin.

Had they truly discovered it
They had like me thought it unfit
To pray to water for their wit.
And had adored Sack as divine,
And made a Poet God of Wine,
And this pint-pot had been a shrine.

Sack unto them had been in stead
Of Nectar, and their heav’nly bread,
And ev’ry boy a Ganimed;
Or had they made a God of it,
Or stil’d it patron of their wit,
This pot had been a temple fit.

Well then Companions is’t not fit,
Since to this Jemme we ow[e] our wit,
That we should praise the Cabonet,
And drink a health to this divine,
And bounteous pallace of our wine[?]:
Die he with thirst that doth repine!

[p. 53.]

_A Song in Praise of SACK._

Hang the _Presbyters_ Gill, bring a pint of Sack, _Will_,
More _Orthodox_ of the two,
Though a slender dispute, will strike the Elf mute,
Here’s one of the honester Crew.

In a pint there’s small heart, Sirrah, bring a Quart;
There is substance and vigour met,
’Twill hold us in play, some part of the day,
But wee’l sink him before Sun-set:

The daring old Pottle, does now bid us battle,
Let us try what our strength can do;
Keep your ranks and your files, and for all his wiles,
Wee’l tumble him down stayrs too.

Then summon a Gallon, a stout Foe and a tall one,
And likely to hold us to’t;
Keep but Coyn in your purse, the word is Disburse,
Ile warrant he’le sleep at your foot.

Let’s drain the whole Celler, Pipes, Buts, and the Dweller,
If the Wine floats not the faster;
_Will_, when thou dost slack us, by warrant from _Bacchus_,
We will cane thy tun-belli’d Master.

[p. 54.]

_In the praise of WINE._

’Tis Wine that inspires,
And quencheth Loves fires,
Teaches fools how to rule a S[t]ate:
Mayds ne’re did approve it
Because those that doe love it,
Despise and laugh at their hate.

The drinkers of beer
Did ne’re yet appear
In matters of any waight;
’Tis he whose designe
Is quickn’d by wine
That raises things to their height.

We then should it prize
For never black eyes
Made wounds which this could not heale,
Who then doth refuse,
To drink of this Juice
Is a foe to the Comon weale.

[Followed by A Glee to the Vicar, beginning, “Let the bells ring, and the boys sing:” for which see the Introduction to our edition of _Westminster Drollery_, pp. xxxvii-viii.]

[p. 55.]

_On a Cold Chyne of BEEF._

Bring out the Old Chyne, the Cold Chyne to me,
And how Ile charge him come and see,
Brawn tusked, Brawn well sowst and fine,
With a precious cup of Muscadine:

CHORUS.

_How shall I sing, how shall I look,_
_In honour of the Master-Cook?_

The Pig shall turn round and answer me,
Canst thou spare me a shoulder[?], a wy, a wy.
The Duck, Goose and Capon, good fellows all three
Shall dance thee an antick[,] so shall the turkey;
But O! the cold Chyne, the cold Chyne for me:

CHORUS.

_How shall I sing, how shall I look,_
_In honour of the Master-Cook?_

With brewis Ile noynt thee from head to th’ heel,
Shal make thee run nimbler then the new oyld wheel[;]
With Pye-crust wee’l make thee
The eighth wise man to be;
But O! the cold Chyne, the cold Chyne for me:

CHORUS.

_How shall I sing, how shall I look,_
_In honour of the Master-Cook?_

[p. 56.]

_A Song of Cupid Scorn’d._

In love[?] away, you do me wrong,
I hope I ha’ not liv’d so long
Free from the Treachery of your eyes,
Now to be caught and made a prize,
No, Lady, ’tis not all your art,
Can make me and my freedome part.

CHORUS.

_Come, fill’s a cup of sherry, and let us be merry,_
_There shall nought but pure wine_
_Make us love-sick or pine,_
_Wee’l hug the cup and kisse it, we’l sigh when ere we misse it;_
_For tis that, that makes us jolly,_
_And sing hy trololey lolly._

In love, ’tis true, with _Spanish_ wine,
Or the _French_ juice _Incarnadine_;
But truly not with your sweet Face,
This dimple, or that hidden grace,
Ther’s far more sweetnesse in pure Wine,
Then in those Lips or Eyes of thine.

CHORUS (_Come, fill’s a cup of sherry, &c._

Your god[,] you say, can shoot so right,
Hee’l wound a heart ith darkest night:
Pray let him throw away a dart,
And try if he can hit my heart.
No _Cupid_, if I shall be thine,
Turn _Ganimed_ and fill us Wine.

CHORUS (_Come, fill’s a cup of sherry, &c._

[The three next are common to the _Antidote_ and _Merry Drollery, Compleat_, with a few verbal differences: On the Vertue of Sack, by Dr. Henry Edwards; The Medley of the Nations; and The Brewer, A Ballad made in the Year 1657, To the Tune of _The Blacksmith_. For them, see _M. D., C._, pp. 293, 127, 221. These three poems are followed by “A Collection of Merry Catches,” thirty-four in number, of which only ten are found in _Merry Drollery, Compleat_, (viz., 3. “Now that the Spring;” 5. “Call _George_ again;” 9. “She that will eat;” 13. “The Wise-men were but Seven;” 14. “Shew a room!” 15. “O! the wily wily Fox;” 17. “Now I am married;” 19. “There was three Cooks in Colebrook;” 22. “If any so wise is;” and 29. “What fortune had I,”) on pp. 296, 304, 308, 232, 337, 300, 280, 318, 348, and 341, respectively. See notes on them, also, in Appendix to _M. D., C._ One other, first in the _Antidote_, had appeared earlier in _Choice Drollery_, p. 52: “He that a Tinker,” &c., _q.v._]

[p. 65.]

A CATCH.

2. You merry Poets[,] old Boyes
Of _Aganippes_ Well,
Full many tales have told boyes
Whose liquor doth excell,
And how that place was haunted
By those that love good wine;
Who tipled there, and chaunted
Among the _Muses_ nine:
Where still they cry’d[,] drink clear, boyes,
And you shall quickly know it,
That ’tis not lowzy Beer, boyes,
But wine, that makes a Poet.

[p. 66.]

A CATCH.

4. Mong’st all the precious Juices
Afforded for our uses,
Ther’s none to be compar’d with Sack:
For the body or the mind,
No such Physick you shall find,
Therefore boy see we do not lack.

Would’st thou hit a lofty strain,
With this Liquor warm thy brain,
And thou Swain shalt sing as sweet as _Sidney_;
Or would’st thou laugh and be fat,
Ther’s not any like to that
To make _Jack Sprat_ a man of kidney.

[It] Is the soul of mirth
To poor Mortals upon Earth;
It would make a coward bold as _Hector_,
Nay I wager durst a Peece,
That those merry Gods of _Greece_
Drank old Sack and _Nector_.

[p. 67.]

A CATCH.

6. Come, come away to the Tavern I say,
For now at home ’tis washing day:
Leave your prittle prattle, and fill us a pottle[;]
You are not so wise as _Aristotle_:
Drawer come away, let’s make it Holy day.
Anon, Anon, Anon, Sir: what is’t you say[?]

A CATCH.

7. There was an old man at _Walton_ cross, [Waltham]
Who merrily sung when he liv’d by the loss;
_Hey tro-ly loly lo_.
He never was heard to sigh a hey ho,
But he sent it out with _Hey troly loly lo_.
He chear’d up his heart,
When his goods went to wrack[,]
With a hem, boy, Hem!
And a cup of old Sack;
Sing, _hey troly loly lo_.

A CATCH.

8. Come, let us cast _Dice_ who shall drink,
Mine is _twelve_, and his _sice sink_,
_Six_ and _Fowr_ is thine, and he threw _nine_.
Come away, _Sink tray_; _Size ace_, fair play;
_Quater-duce_ is your throw Sir; [p. 68.]
_Quater-ace_, they run low, sir:
_Two Dewces_, I see; _Dewce ace_ is but three:
Oh! where is the Wine? Come, fill up his glasse,
For here is the man has thrown _Ams-ace_.

A CATCH.

10. Never let a man take heavily the clamor of his wife,
But be rul’d by me, and lead a merry life;
Let her have her will in every thing,
If she scolds, then laugh and sing,
_Hey derry, derry, ding_.

A CATCH.

11. Let’s cast away care, and merrily sing,
There is a time for every thing;
He that playes at work, and works at his play,
Neither keeps working, nor yet Holy day:
Set business aside, and let us be merry,
And drown our dull thoughts in Canary and Sherry.

A CATCH.

12. Hang sorrow, and cast away care,
And let us drink up our Sack:
They say ’tis good to cherish the blood,
And for to strengthen the back:
Tis Wine that makes the thoughts aspire,
And fills the body with heat;
Besides ’tis good, if well understood [p. 69.]
To fit a man for the feat;
_Then call, and drink up all,_
_The drawer is ready to fill:_
_Pox take care, what need we to spare,_
_My Father has made his will._

[p. 70.]

A CATCH.

16. My lady and her Maid, upon a merry pin,
They made a match at F—ting, who should the wager win.
_Jone_ lights three candles then, and sets them bolt upright;
With the first f—— she blew them out,
With the next she gave them light:
In comes my Lady then, with all her might and main,
And blew them out, and in and out, and out and in again.

A CATCH.

18. An old house end, an old house end,
And many a good fellow wants mon[e]y to spend.
If thou wilt borrow
Come hither to morrow
I dare not part so soon with my friend[.]
But let us be merry, and drink of our sherry,
But to part with my mon[e]y I do not intend[.]
Then a t—d in thy teeth, and an old house end.

[p. 71.]

A CATCH.

20. Wilt thou lend me thy Mare to ride a mile
No; she’s lame going over a stile,
But if thou wilt her to me spare
Thou shalt have mony for thy mare:
Oh say you so, say you so,
Mon[e]y will make my mare to go.

THE ANSWER.

21. Your mare is lame; she halts downe right,
Then shall we not get to _London_ to night:
You cry’d ho, ho, mon[e]y made her go,
But now I well perceive it is not so[.]
You must spur her up, and put her to’t
Though mon[e]y will not make her goe, your spurs will do’t.

[p. 72.]

A CATCH.

23. Good _Symon_, how comes it your Nose looks so red,
And your cheeks and lips look so pale?
Sure the heat of the tost your Nose did so rost,
When they were both sous’t in Ale.
It showes like the Spire of _Pauls_ steeple on fire,
Each Ruby darts forth (such lightning) Flashes,
While your face looks as dead, as if it were Lead
And cover’d all over with ashes.
Now to heighten his colour, yet fill his pot fuller
And nick it not so with froth,
Gra-mercy, mine Host! it shall save the[e] a Toast
Sup _Simon_, for here is good broth.

A CATCH.

24. Wilt thou be Fatt, Ile tell thee how,
Thou shalt quickly do the Feat;
And that so plump a thing as thou
Was never yet made up of meat:
Drink off thy Sack, twas onely that
Made _Bacchus_ and _Jack Falstafe_, Fatt.

Now, every Fat man I advise,
That scarce can peep out of his eyes,
Which being set, can hardly rise; [p. 73.]
Drink off his Sack, and freely quaff:
’Twil make him lean, but me [to] laugh
To tell him how —— ’tis on a staff.

A CATCH.

25. Of all the _Birds_ that ever I see,
The _Owle_ is the fairest in her degree;
For all the day long she sits in a tree,
And when the night comes, away flies she;
To whit, to whow, to whom drink[’st] thou,
Sir Knave to thou;

This song is well sung, I make you a vow, [p. 73.]
And he is a knave that drinketh now;
Nose, Nose, Nose, and who gave thee that jolly red Nose?
[Cinnamon and gin-ger,]
Nutmegs and Cloves, and that gave thee thy jolly red Nose.

A CATCH.

26. This Ale, my bonny Lads, is as brown as a berry,
Then let us be merry here an houre,
And drink it ere its sowre
Here’s to the[e], lad,
Come to me, lad;
Let it come Boy, To my Thumb boy.
Drink it off Sir; ’tis enough Sir;
Fill mine Host, _Tom’s_ Pot and Toast.

A CATCH.

27. What! are we met? come, let’s see
If here’s enough to sing this Glee.
Look about, count your number,
Singing will keep us from crazy slumber;
1, 2, and 3, so many there be that can sing,
The rest for wine may ring:
Here is _Tom_, _Jack_ and _Harry_;
Sing away and doe not tarry,
Merrily now let’s sing, carouse, and tiple,
Here’s _Bristow_ milk, come suck this niple,
There’s a fault sir, never halt Sir, before a criple.

A CATCH.

28. Jog on, jog on the Foot path-way,
And merrily hen’t the stile-a;
Your merry heart go’es all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a.
Your paltry mony bags of Gold,
What need have we to stare-for,
When little or nothing soon is told,
And we have the less to care-for?
Cast care away, let sorrow cease, [p. 74.]
A Figg for Melancholly;
Let’s laugh and sing, or if you please,
We’l frolick with sweet _Dolly_.

A SONG.

_Translated out of Greek._

30. The parcht _Earth_ drinks the _Rain_,
_Trees_ drink it up again;
The _Sea_ the _Ayre_ doth quaff,
_Sol_ drinks the _Ocean_ off;
And when that Health is done,
Pale _Cinthia_ drinks the sun:
Why, then, d’ye stem my drinking Tyde,
Striving to make me sad, I will, I will be mad.

[p. 75.]

A CATCH.

31. Fly, Boy, Fly, Boy, to the Cellars bottom:
View well your Quills and Bung, Sir.
Draw Wine to preserve the Lungs Sir;
Not rascally Wine to Rot u’m.
If the Quill runs foul,
Be a trusty soul, and cane it;
For the Health is such
An ill drop will much profane it.

UPON A WELCHMAN.

32. A Man of _Wales_, a litle before _Easter_
Ran on his Hostes score for Cheese a teaster:
His Hostes chalkt it up behind the doore,
And said, For Cheese (good Sir) Come pay the score:
Cod’s _Pluternails_ (quoth he) what meaneth these?
What dost thou think her knows not Chalk from Cheese?

A SONG.

33. Drink, drink, all you that think
To cure your souls of sadnesse;
Take up your Sack, ’tis all you lack,
All worldly care is madness.
Let Lawyers plead, and Schollars read,
And Sectaries still conjecture,
Yet we can be as merry as they,
With a Cup of _Apollo’s_ nectar.

Let gluttons feed, and souldiers bleed,
And fight for reputation,
Physicians be fools to fill up close stools,
And cure men by purgation:
Yet we have a way far better than they,
Which _Galen_ could never conjecture,
To cure the head, nay quicken the dead,
With a cup of _Apollo’s_ Nectar.

We do forget we are in debt
When we with liquor are warmed;
We dare out-face the Sergeant’s Mace, [p. 76.]
And Martiall Troops though armed.
The _Swedish_ King much honour did win,
And valiant was as _Hector_;
Yet we can be as valiant as he,
With a cup of _Apollo’s_ Nectar.

Let the worlds slave his comfort have,
And hug his hoards of treasure,
Till he and his wish meet both in a dish,
So dies a miser in pleasure.
’Tis not a fat farm our wishes can charm,
We scorn this greedy conjecture;
’Tis a health to our friend, to whom we commend
This cup of _Apollo’s_ Nectar.

The Pipe and the Pot, are our common shot,
Wherewith we keep a quarter;
Enough for to choak with fire and smoak
The Great _Turk_ and the _Tartar_.
Our faces red, our ensignes spread,
_Apollo_ is our Protector:
To rear up the Scout, to run in and out,
And drink up this cup of Nectar.

A CATCH.

34. Welcome, welcome again to thy wits,
This is a Holy day:
I’le have no plots nor melancholly fits,
But merrily passe the time away:
They are mad that are sad;
Be rul’d, by me,
And none shall be so merry as we;
The Kitchin shall catch cold no more,
And we’l have no key to the Buttery dore,
The fidlers shall sing,
And the house shall ring,
And the world shall see
What a merry couple,
Merry couple,
We will be.

_FINIS._

EDITORIAL POSTSCRIPT: 1.—ON THE “AUTHOR” OF _AN ANTIDOTE AGAINST MELANCHOLY_, 1661.

Thanks be to the worthy bookseller, George Thomason,[8] for prudence in laying aside the “tall copy” of this amusing book, from which we make our transcript of text and engraving. Probably it did not exceed two shillings, in price; (at least, we have seen that Anthony à Wood’s uncropt copy of “_Merry Drollery_,” 1661, is marked in contemporary manuscript at “1s. 3d.,” each part). The title says:—

_These witty Poems, though sometime [they]_
_may seem to halt on crutches,_
_Yet they’l all merrily please you_
_for your charge, which not much is._

Who was the “N. D.” to whose light labours we are indebted for the compounding of these “Witty Ballads, jovial Songs, and merry Catches” in Pills warranted to cure the ills of Melancholy, had not hitherto been ascertained[9]; or whether he wrote anything beside the above couplet, and the humorous address To the Reader, beginning,

_There’s no Purge ’gainst ~Melancholy~,_
_But with ~Bacchus~ to be jolly:_
_All else are but dreggs of Folly, &c._ (p. 111.)

As we suspected (flowing though his verse might be), he was more of bookseller than ballad-maker. His injunctions for us to “be wise and _buy_, not _borrow_,” had a terribly tradesman-like sound. Yet he was right. Book-borrowing is an evil practice; and book-lending is not much better. Woeful chasms, in what should be the serried ranks of our Library companions, remind us pathetically, in too many cases (book-cases, especially,) of some Coleridge-like “lifter” of Lambs, who made a raid upon our borders, and carried off plunder, sometimes an unique quarto, on other days an irrecoverable duodecimo: With Schiller, we bewail the departed,—

“_The beautiful is vanished, and returns not._”

The title of “_Pills to Purge Melancholy_” was by Playford and Tom D’Urfey afterwards employed, and kept alive before the public, in many a volume from before 1684 until 1720, if not later. Whether “N. D.” himself were the “Mer[cury] Melancholicus” whose name appears as printer, for the book to be “sold in London and Westminster,” is to us not doubtful. By April 18, 1661,[10] Thomason had secured his copy, and there need be no question that it was for sport, and not through any fear of rigid censorship or malicious pettifogging interference by the law, that, instead of printer’s name, this pseudonym or nickname was adopted.

We believe that the mystery shrouding the personality of “N. D.” can be dispelled. The discovery helps us in more ways than one, and connects the _Antidote against Melancholy_, of 1661, in an intelligible and legitimate manner, with much jocular literature of later date. To us it seems clear that N. D. was no other than [HE]N[RY] [PLAYFOR]D. The triplets addressed in 1661 To the Reader, beginning “There’s no purge ’gainst Melancholy,” are repeated at commencement of the 1684 edition of “_Wit and Mirth; or, an Antidote to Melancholy_” (the third edition of “_Pills to Purge Melancholy_”) where they are entitled “The Stationer to the Reader,” and signed, not “N. D.,” but “H. P.;” for Henry Playford, whose name appears in full as publisher “near the Temple Church.” Thus, the repetition or alteration of the original title, “_An Antidote against Melancholy, made up in Pills_,” or, as the head-line puts it, “_Pills to Purge Melancholy_,” was, in all probability, a perfectly business-like reproduction of what Playford had himself originated. What relation Henry Playford was to John Playford, the publisher of “_Select Ayres_,” “_Choice Ayres_,” 1652, &c., we are not yet certain. Thirteen of the longest and most important poems from the 1661 _Antidote_[11] re-appear in that of 1684, beside four of the Catches. Indeed, the transmission of many of these Lyrics (by the editions of 1699, 1700, 1706, 1707) to the six volume edition, superintended by Tom D’Urfey in 1719-20, is unbroken; though we have still to find the edition published between 1661 and 1684.

But even the 1661 _Antidote_ is not entitled to bear the credit of originating the phrase: _Pills to purge Melancholy_. So far as we know, by personal search, this belongs to Robert Hayman, thirty years earlier. Among his _Quodlibets_, 1628, on p. 74, we find the following epigram:—

“To one of the elders of the Sanctified Parlour of Amsterdam.

_Though thou maist call my merriments, my folly,_
_They are my Pills to purge my melancholy;_
_They would purge thine too, wert thou not foole-holy._”

EDITORIAL POSTSCRIPT: 2.—ARTHUR O’ BRADLEY.

(_Merry Drollery, Compleat_, p. 312, 395; _Antidote ag. Mel._, p. 16.)

“Before we came in we heard a great shouting,
And all that were in it look’d madly;
But some were on Bull-back, some dancing a morris,
And some singing Arthur-a-Bradley.”

—(ROBIN HOOD’S BIRTH, &c. Printed by Wm. Onlen, about 1650.
In _Roxburghe Collection of Black-Letter Ballads_, i., 360.)

So long ago as the Editor can remember, the words and music of “Arthur o’ Bradley’s Wedding” rang pleasantly in his ears. The jovial rollicking strain prepared him to feel interest in the bridal attire of Shakespeare’s Petruchio; who, not improbably, when about to be married unto “Kate the Curst,” borrowed the details of costume and demeanour from this popular hero of song. Or _vice versa_. To this day, the _lilt_ of the tune holds a fascination, and we sometimes behold, under favourable planetary aspects, the long procession of dancing couples who have, during three centuries, footed the grass, the rashes, or chalked floor, to that jig-melody, accompanied by the bagpipes or fiddle of some rustic Crowdero. Can it be possible? Yes, the line is headed by the venerable Queen Elizabeth, holding up her fardingale with tips of taper fingers, and looking preternaturally grim, to show that dancing is a serious undertaking for a virgin sovereign (especially when the Spanish Ambassador watches her, with comments of wonder that the Head of the Church can dance at all). Yet is there a sly under-glance that tells of fun, to those who are her Majesty’s familiars. Her “Cousin James” is not the neatest figure as a partner (which accounts for her having chosen Leicester instead, let alone chronology); but we see him, close behind, with Anne of Denmark, twirling his crooked little legs about in obedience to the music, until his round hose swell like hemispheres on school-maps. “Baby Charles and Steenie,” half mockingly, follow after with the Infanta. We did once catch a glimpse of handsome Carr and his wicked paramour, Frances Howard, trying to join the Terpsichorean revellers; but, beautiful as they both were, it was felt necessary to exclude them, “for the honour of Arthur o’ Bradley,” since they possessed none of their own. What a gallant assemblage of poets and dramatists covered the buckle and snapped their fingers gleefully to the merry notes! Foremost among them was rare Ben Jonson (unable to resist clothing Adam Overdo in Arthur’s own mantle); and honest Thomas Dekker “followed after in a dream” (as had been memorably printed on our seventh page of _Choyce Drollery_), thinking of Bellafront’s repentance, and her quotation of the well-known burden, “O brave Arthur o’ Bradley, then!” A score of poets are junketting with merry milkmaids and Wives of Windsor. Richard Brathwaite (the creator of Drunken Barnaby) is not absent from among them; although he sees, outside the circle that for a moment has formed around a Maypole, an angry crowd of schismatic Puritans, who are scowling at them with malignant eyes, and denunciations misquoted from Scripture. Many a fair Precisian, nevertheless, yields to the honeyed pleading of a be-love-locked Cavalier, and the irresistible charms of “Arthur o’ Bradley, ho!” showing the prettiest pair of ankles, and the most delightful mixture of bashfulness and enjoyment; until the Roundhead Buff-coats prove too numerous, and whisk her off to a conventicle, where, the sexes sitting widely apart, for aught we know, the crop-eared rout sing unpoetic versions of the Psalmist to the tune of Arthur o’ Bradley, “godlified” and eke expurgated.

Cromwell, we know, loved music, withal, and it is not unlikely that those two ladies are his daughters, whom we behold dancing somewhat stiffly in John Hingston’s music-chamber; Mrs. Claypole and her sister, Mrs Rich: there are L’Estrange, who fiddles to them, and Old Noll, smiling pleasantly, though the tune be Arthur o’ Bradley. Our Second Charles (not yet “Restored”) is also dancing to it, at the Hague (as we see in Janssen’s Windsor picture), with the Princess Palatine Elizabeth, and such a bevy of bright faces round them, that we lose our heart entirely. Can we not see him again—crowned now, and self-acknowledged as “Old Rowley”—at one of the many balls in Whitehall recorded by Samuel Pepys,[12] entering gaily into all the mirth with that grave, swarthy face of his; not noticing the pouts of Catherine, who sits neglected while The Castlemaine laughs loudly, the fair Stewart simpers, and the little spaniels bark or caper through the palace, snapping at the dancers’ heels? Be sure that pretty Nelly and saucy Knipp were also well acquainted with the music of “rare Arthur o’ Bradley,” as indeed were thousands of the play-goers to whom the former once sold oranges.

And lower ranks delighted in it. Pierce, the Bagpiper, is himself the central figure, when we look again, “with cheeks as big as a mitre,” such time as that table-full of Restoration revellers (whom we catch sight of in our frontispiece to the _Antidote_, 1661) are beginning to shake a toe in honour of the music.

So it continues for two centuries more, with all varieties of costume and feature. Certain are we that plump Sir Richard Steele whistled the tune, and Dean Swift gave the Dublin ballad-singer a couple of thirteens for singing it. Dr. Johnson grunted an accompaniment whenever he heard the melody, and James Boswell insisted on dancing to it, though a little “overtaken,” and got his sword entangled betwixt his legs, which cost him a fall and a plastered head-piece, by no means for the only time on record. It is reported that good old George the Third was seen endeavouring to persuade Queen Charlotte to accompany him on the Spinnet, while he set their numerous olive-branches jigging it delightedly “_for the honour of ~Arthur~ o’ ~Bradley~_.” But whenever Dr. John Wolcot was reported to be prowling near at hand, with Peter Pindaresque eyes, the motion ceased. Well was it loved by honest Joseph Ritson, _impiger, iracundus inexorabilis, acer_—better than vegetable diet and eccentric spelling, or the flagellation of inexact antiquarian Bishops. We ourselves may have beheld him in high glee perusing the black-letter ballad, and rectifying its corrupt text by the _Antidote against Melancholy’s_. How lustily he skipped, shouting meanwhile the burden of “_brave ~Arthur~ o’ ~Bradley~!_” so that unconsciously he joined the ten-mile train of dancers. They are still winding around us, some in a Nineteenth-Century garb (a little tattered, but it adds to the picturesqueness), blithe Hop-pickers of West-Bridge Deanery. There are a few New Zealanders, we understand, waiting to join the throng, (including Macaulay’s own particular circumnavigating meditator, yet unborn); so that as long as the world wags no welcome may be lacking to the mirth and melody, jigging and joustling,

“_For the honour of ~Arthur~ o’ ~Bradley~,_
_O rare ~Arthur~ o’ ~Bradley~,_
_O brave ~Arthur~ o’ ~Bradley~,_
_~Arthur~ o’ ~Bradley~. O!_”

Having relieved our feelings, for once, we resume the sober duties of Annotation in a chastened spirit:—

In _Merry Drollery Compleat_, Reprint (Appendix, p. 401), we gave the full quotation from a Sixteenth Century Interlude, _The Contract of Marriage between Wit and Wisdom_, the point being this:—

“_For the honour of ~Artrebradley~,_
_This age would make me swear madly_!”

Arthur o’ Bradley is mentioned by Thomas Dekker, near the end of the first part of his _Honest Whore_, 1604; when Bellafront, assuming to be mad, hears that Mattheo is to marry her, she exclaims—

“_Shall he? O brave ~Arthur~ of ~Bradley~, then?_”

In Ben Jonson’s _Bartholomew Fair_, 1614, (which covers the Puritans with ridicule, for the delight of James 1st.), Act ii. Scene 1, when Adam Overdo, the Sectary, is disguised in a “garded coat” as Arthur o’ Bradley, to gesticulate outside a booth, Mooncalf salutes him thus:—“O Lord! do you not know him, Mistress? _’tis mad ~Arthur~ of ~Bradley~ that makes the orations_.—Brave master, old Arthur of Bradley, how do you do? Welcome to the Fair! When shall we hear you again, to handle your matters, _with your back against a booth_, ha?”

In Richard Brathwaite’s _Strappado for the Diuell_, 1615, p. 225 (in a long poem, containing notices of Wakefield, Bradford, and Kendall, addressed “to all true-bred Northerne Sparks, of the generous Society of the Cottoneers,” &c.) is the following reference to this tune, and to other two, viz. “Wilson’s Delight,” and “Mal Dixon’s Round:”

“_So each (through peace of conscience) rapt with pleasure_
_Shall ioifully begin to dance his measure._
_One footing actiuely ~Wilson’s~ delight, ..._
_The fourth is chanting of his Notes so gladly,_
_Keeping the tune for th’ honour of ~Arthura Bradly~;_
_The ~5[th]~ so pranke he scarce can stand on ground,_
_Asking who’le sing with him ~Mal Dixon’s~ round._”

(By the way: The same author, Richard Brathwaite, in his amusing _Shepherds Tales_, 1621, p. 211, mentions as other Dance-tunes,

_Roundelayes_, || _~Irish~-hayes,_
_Cogs and rongs and ~Peggie Ramsie~,_
_Spaniletto_ || _The Venetto,_
_~John~ come kisse me, ~Wilson’s~ Fancie._)

Again, Thomas Gayton writes concerning the hero:—“’Tis not alwaies sure that _’tis merry in hall when beards Wag all_, for these men’s beards wagg’d as fast as they could tag ’em, but mov’d no mirth at all: They were verifying that song of—

_Heigh, brave ~Arthur~ o’ ~Bradley~,_
_A beard without hair looks madly._”

(_Festivous Notes on Don Quixot_, 1654, p. 141.)

On pp. 540, 604, of William Chappell’s excellent work, _The Popular Music of the Olden Time_, are given two tunes, one for the _Antidote_ version, and the other for the modern, as sung by Taylor, “Come neighbours, and listen a while.” He quotes the two lines from Gayton, and also this from Wm. Wycherley’s _Gentleman Dancing Master_, 1673, Act i, Sc. 2, where Gerrard says:—“Sing him ‘_Arthur of Bradley_,’ or ‘_I am the Duke of Norfolk_.’”

It is quite evident, from such passages, that during a long time a proverbial and popular character attached to this noisy personage: such has not yet passed away. The earliest complete imprint of “Arthur o’ Bradley” as a Song, (from a printed original, of 1656, beginning “_All you that desire to merry be_,”) in our present APPENDIX, Part iv. Quite distinct from this hitherto unnoticed examplar, not already reprinted, is “_Saw you not ~Pierce~, the piper_,” &c., the ballad reproduced by us, from _Merry Drollery_, 1661, Part 2nd., p. 124, (and ditto, _Compleat_ 1670, 1691, p. 312); which agrees with the _Antidote against Melancholy_, same date, 1661, p. 16. More than a Century later, an inferior rendering was common, printed on broadsheets. It was mentioned, in 1797, by Joseph Ritson, as being a “much more modern ballad [than the _Antidote_ version] upon this popular subject, in the same measure intitled _Arthur o’ Bradley_, and beginning ‘All in the merry month of May.’” (_Robin Hood_, 1797, ii. 211.) Of this we already gave two verses, (in Appendix to _M. Drollery C._, p. 400), but as we believe the ballad has not been reprinted in this century, we may give all that is extant, from the only copy within reach, of ARTHUR O’ BRADLEY:—

“_All in the merry month of May,_
_The maids [they will be gay,_
_For] a May-pole they will have, &c._”

(See the present Appendix, Part iv.)

In this, doubtless, we detect two versions, garbed together. What is now the final verse is merely a variation of the sixth: probably the broadsheet-printer could not meet with a genuine eighth verse. Robert Bell denounced the whole as “a miserable composition” (even as he had declared against the amatory Lyrics of Charles the Second’s time): but then, he might have added, with Goldsmith, “My Bear dances to none but the werry genteelest of tunes.”

Far superior to this was the “Arthur o’ Bradley’s Wedding:

“_Come, neighbours, and listen awhile, If ever you wished to smile_,” &c., which was sung by ... Taylor, a comic actor, about the beginning of this century. It is not improbable that he wrote or adapted it, availing himself of such traditional scraps as he could meet with. Two copies of it, duplicate, on broadsheets, are in the Douce Collection at Oxford, vol. iv. pp. 18, 19. A copy, also, in J. H. Dixon’s _Bds. and Sgs. of the Peasantry_, Percy Soc., 1845, vol. xvii. (and in R. B.’s _Annotated Ed. B. P._, p. 138.)

There is still another “Arthur o’ Bradley,” but not much can, or need, be said in its favour; except that it contains only three verses. Yet even these are more than two which can be spared. Its only tolerable lines are borrowed from the Roxburghe Ballad. It is the _nadir_ of Bradleyism, and has not even a title, beyond the burden “_O rare ~Arthur~ o’ ~Bradley~, O!_” Let us, briefly, be in at the death: although Arthur makes not a Swan-like end, with the help of his Catnach poet. It begins thus:

_’Twas in the sweet month of May, I walked out to take the air,_
_My Father he died one day, and he left me his son and heir;_
_He left me a good warm house, that wanted only a thatch,_
_A strong oak door to my chamber, that only wanted a latch;_
_He left me a rare old cow, I wish he’d have left me a sow,_
_A cock that in fighting was shy, and a horse with a sharp wall eye, &c._

(_Universal Songster_, 1826, i. 368.)

Even Ophelia could not ask, after Arthur sinking so low, “And will he not come again?”

J. W. E.

_September, 1875._

[So far as possible, to give completeness to our Reprint of _Westminster Drollery_ of 1671-2, and _Merry Drollery, Compleat_, 1670-1691, we now add the Extra Songs belonging to the former work, edition 1674; and to the latter, in its earlier edition, 1661: with their respective title-pages.]

_Westminster-Drollery._

Or, A Choice
COLLECTION
of the Newest
SONGS & POEMS
BOTH AT
Court and Theaters.

BY
A Person of Quality.

_The third Edition, with many more
Additions._

LONDON,
Printed for _H. Brome_, at the _Gun_ in St. _Paul’s_
Church Yard, near the West End.
MDCLXXIV.

_ADDITIONAL SONGS_

FROM THE

WESTMINSTER-DROLLERY:

Edition 1674.

[p. 111.]

_A Song._

1. So wretched are the sick of Love,
No Herb has vertue to remove
The growing ill:
But still,
The more we Remedies oppose
The Feaver more malignant grows.
Doubts do but add unto desire,
Like Oyl that’s thrown upon the fire,
Which serves to make the flame aspire;
And not t’ extinguish it:
Love has its trembling, and its burning fit.

2. Fruition which the sick propose [p. 112.]
To end, and recompence their woes,
But turns them o’re
To more.
And curing one, does but prepare
A new, perhaps a greater care.
Enjoyment even in the chaste,
Pleases, not satisfies the taste,
And licens’d Love the worst can fast.
Such is the Lovers state,
Pining and pleas’d, alike unfortunate.

3. _Sabina_ and _Camilla_ share
An equal interest in care,
Fear hath each brest
Possest.
In different Fortunes, one pure flame
Makes their unhappiness the same.
Love begets fear, fear grief creates,
Passion still passion animates,
Love will be love in all estates:
His power still is one
Whether in hope or in possession.

[p. 113.]

_A Song._

1. To Arms! to Arms! the Heroes cry,
A glorious Death, or Victory.
Beauty and Love, although combin’d,
And each so powerful alone,
Cannot prevail against a mind
Bound up in resolution.
Tears their weak influence vainly prove,
Nothing the daring breast can move
Honour is blind, and deaf, ev’n deaf to Love.

2. The Field! the Field! where Valour bleeds,
Spurn’d into dust by barbed steeds,
Instead of wanton Beds of Down
Is now the Scene where they must try,
To overthrow, or be o’rethrown;
Bravely to overcome, or dye.
Honour in her interest sits above
What Beauty, Prayers, or tears can move:
Were there no Honour, there would be no Love.

[p. 114.]

_A Song._

1. Beauty that it self can kill,
Through the finest temper’d steel,
Can those wounds she makes endure,
And insult it o’re the brave,
Since she knows a certain cure,
When she is dispos’d to save:
But when a Lover bleeding lies,
Wounded by other Arms,
And that she sees those harms,
For which she knows no remedies;
Then Beauty Sorrows livery wears,
And whilst she melts away in tears,
Drooping in Sorrow shews
Like Roses overcharg’d with morning dews.

2. Nor do women, though they wear
The most tender character,
Suffer in this case alone:
Hearts enclos’d with Iron Walls,
In humanity must groan
When a noble Hero falls.
Pitiless courage would not be [p. 115.]
An honour, but a shame;
Nor bear the noble name
Of valour, but barbarity;
The generous even in success
Lament their enemies distress:
And scorn it should appear
Who are the Conquer’d, with the Conqueror.

_A Song._

1. The young, the fair, the chaste, the good,
The sweet _Camilla_, in a flood
Of her own Crimson lies
A bloody, bloody sacrifice
To Death and man’s inhumane cruelties.
Weep Virgins till your sorrow swells
In tears above the Ivory Cells
That guard those Globes of light;
Drown, drown those beauties of your eyes.
Beauty should mourn, when beauty dies;
And make a general night,
To pay her innocence its Funeral rite.

2. Death since his Empire first begun, [p. 116.]
So foul a conquest never won,
Nor yet so fair a prize:
And had he had a heart, or eyes,
Her beauties would have charm’d his cruelties.
Even Savage Beasts will Beauty spare,
Chaft Lions fawn upon the fair; [Fierce lions]
Nor dare offend the chaste:
But vitious man, that sees and knows
The mischiefs his wild fury does,
Humours his passions haste,
To prove ungovern’d man the greatest beast.

_A Song._

1. How frailty makes us to our wrong
Fear, and be loth to dye,
When Life is only dying long
And Death the remedy!
We shun eternity,
And still would gravel her beneath, [_Scil._, grovel]
Though still in woe and strife,
When Life’s the path that leads to Death,
And Death the door to Life.

2. The Fear of Death is the disease [p. 117.]
Makes the poor patient smart;
Vain apprehensions often freeze
The vitals in the heart,
Without the dreaded Dart.
When fury rides on pointed steel
Death’s fear the heart doth seize,
Whilst in that very fear we feel
A greater sting than his.

3. But chaste _Camilla’s_ vertuous fear
Was of a noble kind,
Not of her end approaching near
But to be left behind,
From her dear Love disjoyn’d;
When Death in courtesie decreed,
To make the fair his prize,
And by one cruelty her freed
From humane cruelties.

CHORUS.

Thus heav’n does his will disguise,
To scourge our curiosities,
When too inquisitive we grow
Of what we are forbid to know.
Fond humane nature that will try [p. 118.]
To sound th’ Abiss of Destiny!
Alas! what profit can arise
From those forbidden scrutinies,
When Oracles what they foretel
In such Ænigma’s still conceal,
That self indulging man still makes
Of deepest truths most sad mistakes!
Or could our frailty comprehend
The reach those riddles do intend:
What boots it us when we have done,
To foresee ills we cannot shun?
But ’tis in man a vain pretence,
To know or prophesie events,
Which only execute, and move,
By a dependence from above.
’Tis all imposture to deceive
The foolish and inquisitive,
Since none foresee what shall befal,
But providence that governs all.
Reason wherewith kind Heav’n has blest
His creature man above the rest,
Will teach humanity to know
All that it should aspire unto;
And whatsoever fool relies
On false deceiving prophesies,
Striving by conduct to evade
The harms they threaten, or perswade,
Too frequently himself does run [p. 119.]
Into the danger he would shun,
And pulls upon himself the woe
Fate meant he should much later know.
By such delusions vertue strays
Out of those honourable ways
That lead unto that glorious end,
To which the noble ever bend.
Whereas if vertue were the guide,
Mens minds would then be fortified
With constancy, that would declare
Against supineness, and despair.
We should events with patience wait,
And not despise, nor fear our Fate.

[p. 120.]

_WICKHAM WAKENED_,

_The Quakers Madrigall In Rime Dogrell_.

The Quaker and his Brats,
Are born with their Hats,
Which a point with two Taggs,
Ty’s fast to their Craggs,
Nor King nor Kesar,
To such Knaves as these are,
Do signifie more than a Tinker.
His rudeness and pride
So puffs up his hide
That He’s drunk though he be no drinker.

_Chorus._

_Now since Mayor and Justice_
_Are assured that thus ’tis_
_To abate their encrease and redundance_
_Let us send them to WICKHAM_
_For there’s one will kick ’um_
_Into much better manners by abundance._

Once the Clown at his entry [p. 121.]
Kist his golls to the Gentry:
When the Lady took upon her,
’Twas God save your Honor:
But now Lord and Pesant,
Do make but one messe on’t
Then farewel distinction ’twixt Plowman and Knight.
If the world be thus tost
The old Proverb is crost,
For Joan’s as good as my Lady in th’ Light.

_Chorus._