WOW as fame does report a young duke keeps a court, Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest; A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground, As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound. The duke said to his men, William, Richard, and Ben, O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd To the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd : Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes, and hose, And they put him to bed for to take his repose. Having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt, They did give him clean holland: this was no great hurt; On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown, They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown. In the morning when day, then admiring he lay, Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state, Tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit, For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet wife? From a convenient place, the right duke his good grace To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait, Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great: A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests, He was plac'd at the table above all the rest, As he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet, While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine, Then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain, 'Twas a point next the worst, yet perform it they must, For his glory to him so pleasant did seem, That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream; Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak, Then the tinker reply'd, What! must Joan my sweet bride Be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride? Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command ? Then I shall be a squire I well understand: Well I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace, I was never before in so happy a case. SHIFTING knave about the towne, To tell men's fortunes and good haps, What day was best to travaile on, Which fit to chuse a wife; If violent or naturall A man should end his life; Successe of any suite in law, When it is good to pick ones teeth, So cunningly he plaid the knave, With shifting, base, and cousening tricks; For skill he had not any. Amongst a crew of simple guls, A butcher comes and craves his help, Ten groates he gave him for his fee, And he to conjure goes, With characters, and vocables, And divers antique showes. The butcher, in a beastly feare, Expected spirits still, And wished himselfe within his shop, Some sheepe or calfe to kill. At length, out of an old blinde hole, Behinde a painted cloth, A deville comes with roaring voyce, Seeming exceeding wroth, With squibs and crackers round about Wilde-fier he did send; Which, swaggering Ball, the butchers dog, So highly did offend, That he upon the devill flies, And shakes his hornes so sore, Even like an oxe, most terrible He made hobgoblin roare. The cunning man cries, " For Gods love help, Unto youre mastiffe call!" 66 Fight dog, fight devill!" butcher said, And claps his hands at Ball. The dog most cruelly tore his flesh, The devill went to wracke, |