You Goddesses and Nymphs so bright, The greater Star, the lesser light; To Lords, as well as mean estates, Belongeth husbands horned baites, [? pates.] Then give your Ladies leave to prove The things the which your selves do love; For any woman, what ere she be, Will yield to Opportunity. [p. 22.] _Lusty Tobacco._ You that in love do mean to sport, Tobacco, Tobacco, First take a wench of a meaner sort, Tobacco, Tobacco, But let her have a comely grace, Like one that came from _Venus_ race, Then take occasion, time, and place, To give her some Tobacco. You —— gamesters must be bound, [p. 23.] Tobacco, Tobacco, Their bullets must be plump and round, Tobacco, Tobacco, Your Stopper must be stiff and strong, Your Pipe it must be large and long, Or else she’ll say you do her wrong, She’ll scorn your weak Tobacco. And if that you do please her well, Tobacco, Tobacco, All others then she will expell, Tobacco, Tobacco. She will be ready at your call To take Tobacco, Pipe, and all, So willing she will be to fall To take your strong Tobacco. And when you have her favour won, Tobacco, Tobacco, You must hold out as you begun, Tobacco, Tobacco, Or else she’ll quickly change her mind, And seek some other Friend to find, That better may content her mind In giving her Tobacco. And if you do not do her right, Tobacco, Tobacco, She’ll take a course to burn your Pipe, Tobacco, Tobacco, And if you ask what she doth mean, She’ll say she doth’t to make it clean, Then take you heed of such a Quean For spoyling your Tobacco, As I my self dare boldly speak, [p. 24.] Tobacco, Tobacco, Which makes my very heart to break, Tobacco, Tobacco, For she that I take for my friend, Hath my Tobacco quite consum’d, She hath spoil’d my Pipe, and there’s an end Of all my good Tobacco. [p. 29.] _On the Goldsmiths-Committee._ Come Drawer, some wine, Or we’ll pull down the Sign, For we are all jovial Compounders: We’ll make the house ring, With healths to the KING, And confusion light on his Confounders. Since Goldsmiths Committee Affords us no pitty, Our sorrows in wine we will steep ’um, They force us to take Two Oaths, but we’ll make A third, that we ne’r mean to keep ’um. And next, who e’r sees, We drink on our knees, To the King, may he thirst that repines. A fig for those traitors That look to our waters, They have nothing to do with our wines. And next here’s a Cup To the Queen, fill it up, Were it poyson, we would make an end o’nt: May _Charles_ and She meet, And tread under feet Both Presbyter and Independent.