Humour, Wit, and Satire of the Seventeenth Century. [1.] There was a man that had been drinking so hard that he could scarse stand upon his feet, yet at night he would go home, and as he went through a green Meadow, neer a hedge side the Bryers held him by the cloaths and the legs, and he had thought that one had holden him, and would have had him to drink more, and he said, Good fellow, let me go, by my troth I can drink no more, I have drank so much already, that I cannot go home; and there he abode all the same night, and on the morrow went his Ways. When _Marcus_ hath Carrowst March beere and sacke, [2.] And feels his head grow dizzy therwithall. Then of Tobacco he a pype doth lacke, Of Trinidade in cane, in leafe, or ball, Which tane a little he doth Speet and Smacke, Then layes him on his bed for feare to fall And on Tobacco layes the blame of all, But that same pype that Marcus brain did lade Was of Madera not of Trinidade. I had a love, and she was chaste, [3.] Alack the more's the pity, But wot you how my love was chaste, She was chaste right through the City. [4.] A Justice of Peace overtaking a Parson upon the Road, between _London_ and _Bow_, told his Company that he would put a Trick upon him: and so, coming up to him, said, _Sir, You don't follow your Master's Rule, for he was content with an Ass, but you have a very fine Horse_. The Parson replyed, the reason was, because the King had made so many Asses Justices, that a Clergyman could not get one to Ride on. _On a drawer drunk._ Drawer with thee now even is thy wine [5.] For thou hast pierced his hogs-head, and he thine. _Upon the weights of a Clock._ I wonder time's so swift, when as I see, [5.] Upon her heeles such lumps of lead to bee. _Nonsense._ Oh that my Lungs could bleat like butter'd Pease; [3.] But bleating of my lungs hath Caught the itch, And are as mangy as the Irish Seas, That doth ingender windmills on a Bitch. I grant that Rainbowes being lull'd asleep, Snort like a woodknife in a Lady's eyes; Which makes her grieve to see a pudding creep, For Creeping puddings only please the wise. Not that a hard row'd herring should presume To swing a tyth pig in a Cateskin purse; For fear the hailstons which did fall at Rome, By lesning of the fault should make it worse. For 'tis most certain Winter woolsacks grow From geese to swans, if men could keep them so, Till that the sheep shorn Planets gave the hint, To pickle pancakes in Geneva print. Some men there were that did suppose the skie Was made of Carbonado'd Antidotes; But my opinion is, a Whales left eye, Need not be coyned all King _Harry_ groates. The reason's plain, for Charons Westerne barge Running a tilt at the subjunctive mood, Beckoned to Bednal Green, and gave him charge To fasten padlockes with Antartic food.