At another time, _Ben Johnson_ intending to go through the Half Moone Tavern in _Aldersgate Street_, was denied entrance, the Door being shut: upon which he made these Verses. Since the _Half-Moon_ is so unkind, to make me go about, The _Sun_ my Money now shall take, the _Moon_ shall go without. And so he went to the _Sun Tavern_ at _Long Lane_ end, forsaking the _Half-Moon_ for this affront. [Footnote 200: "Noy, when Whitelocke came to him about the Bill, advised with him about the King's Patent concerning an association between England and Scotland for fishing. Noy loved a little drollery, and gave Whitelocke eleven groats out of his little purse. Here, said Noy, take these single pence; and I give you more than an attorney's fee, because you will be a better man than an Attorney-General; and this you will find to be true. This was in 1629."--_Lives of Eminent Sergeants at Law, by H. W. Woolrych, Lond. 1869._] [91.] When I lived, I fed the living, now I am dead, I bear the living, and with swift speed walke over the living. _Resolution._ A Ship made of an Oake, growing, fed Hogs with Acorns, now beares men, swims over fishes. The English Irish Souldier _With his new Discipline, new Armes, old Stomacke, and new taken pillage, who had rather Eate than Fight._ If any Souldate [106.] think I do appeare, In this strange Armes and posture, as a Jeere, Let him advance up to me he shall see, Ile stop his mouth and we wil both agree. [Illustration] Our Skirmish ended our Enemies fled or slaine Pillage wee cry then, for the Souldiers game, And this compleat Artillery I have got, The best of Souldiers, I think, hateth not. My Martiall Armes dealt I amongst my foes With this I charged stand 'gainst hungers blowes; This is Munition if a Souldier lacke, He fights like _Iohn a dreams_[F. 201] or Lent's thin _Jacke_.[F. 202] All safe and cleare, my true Arms rest awhile, And welcome pillage you have foes to soile. This Pot, my Helmet, must not be forsaken, For loe I seiz'd it full of Hens and Bacon. Rebels for Rebels drest it but our hot rost Made them to flye and now they kisse the post. And better that to kisse than stay for Pullets And have their bellies cram'd with leaden bullets. This fowle my Feather is, who wins most fame, To weare a pretty Duck he need not shame; This Spit my well chargd Musket with a Goose, Now cryes come eate me, let your stomacks loose. This Dripping Pan's my target, and this Hartichoke My Basket-hilted blade can make 'em smoake, And make them slash and cut who most Home puts, Ile most my fury sheath into his guts.