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._