| |
| I SING no harm, good sooth, to any wight, | |
| To lord or fool, 1 cuckold, beggar, or knight, | |
| To peace-teaching lawyer, proctor, or brave | |
| Reformed or reducèd captain, knave, | |
| Officer, juggler, 2 or justice of peace, | 5 |
| Juror or judge; I touch no fat sow’s grease; | |
| I am no libeller, nor will be any, | |
| But—like a true man—say there are too many. | |
| I fear not ore tenus; for my tale | |
| Nor count nor counsellor will look 3 red or pale. | 10 |
| |
| A citizen and his wife the other day | |
| Both riding on one horse, upon the way | |
| I overtook; the wench, a pretty peat, | |
| And—by her eye—well fitting for the feat. | |
| I saw the lecherous citizen turn back | 15 |
| His head, and on his wife’s lip steal a smack; | |
| Whence apprehending that the man was kind, | |
| Riding before to kiss his wife behind, | |
| To get acquaintance with him I began | |
| To sort discourse fit for so fine a man; | 20 |
| I ask’d the number of the plaguing 4 bill; | |
| Ask’d if the custom farmers held out still; | |
| Of the Virginian plot, and whether Ward | |
| The traffic of the island seas 5 had marr’d; | |
| Whether the Britain Burse did fill apace, | 25 |
| And likely were to give th’ Exchange disgrace. | |
| Of new-built Aldgate, and the Moor-field crosses, | |
| Of store of bankrupts, and poor merchants’ losses | |
| I urgèd him to speak; but he—as mute | |
| As an old courtier worn to his last suit— | 30 |
| Replies with only yeas and nays; at last | |
| —To fit his element—my theme I cast | |
| On tradesmen’s gains; that set his tongue a-going. | |
| “Alas! good sir,” quoth he, “there is no doing | |
| In court or city now”; she smiled, and I, | 35 |
| And, in my conscience, both gave him the lie | |
| In one met thought; but he went on apace, | |
| And at the present time 6 with such a face | |
| He rail’d, as fray’d me; for he gave no praise | |
| To any but my Lord of Essex’ days; | 40 |
| Call’d that 7 the age of action—“True!” quoth I 8— | |
| “There’s now as great an itch of bravery, | |
| And heat of taking up, but cold lay down, | |
| For, put to push of pay, away they run; | |
| Our only city trades of hope now are | 45 |
| Bawds, tavern-keepers, whores, and scriveners. 9 | |
| The much of privileged kinsmen and store 10 | |
| Of fresh protections make the rest all poor. | |
| In the first state of their creation | |
| Though many stoutly stand, yet proves not one | 50 |
| A righteous pay-master.” Thus ran he on | |
| In a continued rage; so void of reason | |
| Seem’d his harsh talk, I sweat for fear of treason. | |
| And—troth—how could I less? when in the prayer | |
| For the protection of the wise Lord Mayor, | 55 |
| And his wise brethren’s worships, when one prayeth, | |
| He swore that none could say amen with faith. | |
| To get off 11 him from what I glow’d to hear, | |
| In happy time an angel did appear, | |
| The bright sign of a loved and well-tried inn, | 60 |
| Where many citizens with their wives had been | |
| Well used and often; here I pray’d him stay, | |
| To take some due refreshment by the way. | |
| Look, how he look’d that hid the gold, 12 his hope, | |
| And at 13 return found nothing but a rope, | 65 |
| So he at me; 14 refused and made away, | |
| Though willing she pleaded a weary stay. 15 | |
| I found my miss, struck hands, and pray’d him tell— | |
| To hold acquaintance still—where he did dwell. | |
| He barely named the street, promised the wine, | 70 |
| But his kind wife gave me the very sign. | |
