Oh! _Will: Rufus_, who would passe, Unlesse he were a captious Asse; The Head of all the parts is best, And hath more senses then the rest. This subject then in our defence Will clear our Poem of non-sense. Besides, you know, what ere we read, We use to bring it to a head. Why there’s no other part we can Stile Monarch o’re this Isle of man: ’Tis that that weareth Nature’s crown, ’Tis this doth smile, ’tis this doth frown, O what a prize and triumph ’twere, To make this King our Subject here: Believ’t, tis true what we have sed, In this we hit the naile o’ th’ head. 2. [W. H.’s ANSWER.] Your nails upon my head Sir, Why? How do you thus to villifie The King of Parts, ’mongst all the rest, Or if no king, methinks at least, To mine you should give no offence, That weares the badge of Innocence; Those blowes would far more justly light On thy red scull, for mine is white. 1. Come on yfaith, that was well sed, A pretty boy, hold up thy head, Or hang it down, and blush apace, And make it like mines native grace. There’s ne’re a Bung-hole in the town But in the working puts thine down, A byle that’s drawing to a head Looks white like thine, but mine is red. 2. [W. H.’s ANSWER.] Poore foole, ’twas shame did first invent The colour of thy Ornament, And therefore thou art much too blame To boast of that which is thy shame; The Roman Prince that Poppeys topt, Did shew such Red heads should be cropt: And still the Turks for poyson smite Such Ruddy skulls, but mine is white. 1. The Indians paint their Devils so, And ’tis a hated mark we know, For never any aim aright That do not strive to hit the white: The Eagle threw her shell-fish down, To crack in pieces such a crown: Alas, a stinking onions head Is white like thine, but mine is red. 2. [White’s] Red like to a blood-shot eye, Provoking all that see ’t to cry: For shame nere vaunt thy colours thus Since ’tis an eye-sore unto us; Those locks I’d swear, did I not know’t, Were threds of some red petticoat; No Bedlams oaker’d armes afright So much as thine, but mine is white. 1. Now if thou’lt blaze thy armes Ile shew’t, My head doth love no petticoat, My face on one side is as faire As on the other is my haire, So that I bear by Herauld’s rules, Party per pale Argent and Gules. Then laugh not ’cause my hair is red, Ile swear that mine’s a noble head. 1. [2. White Head’s Reply.] The Scutcheon of my field doth beare One onely field, and that is rare, For then methinks that thine should yeild, Since mine long since hath won the field; Besides, all the notes that be, White is the note of Chastity, So that without all feare or dread, Ile swear that mine’s a maidenhead. 1.