Although we have no bells to jingle, Yet can we shew a fair quadrangle, Which, though it ne'er was graced with king, Yet sure it is a goodly thing: My warning's short, no more I'll say, Soon you shall see a gallant play. But nothing was so much admired As were their plays, so well attired; Nothing did win more praise of mine, Than did their Actors most divine: So did they drink their healths divinely, So did they skip and dance so finely. Their plays had sundry grave wise factors, A perfect diocess of Actors Upon the stage; for I am sure that There was both bishop, pastor, curat: Nor was this labour light or small, The charge of some was pastoral. Our plays were certainly much worse, For they had a brown hobby-horse, Which did present unto his Grace A wondrous witty ambling pace: But we were chiefly spoyl'd by that Which was six hours of _God knows what_. His Lordship then was in a rage, His Lordship lay upon the stage, His Lordship cry'd, All would be marr'd: His Lordship lov'd a-life the guard, And did invite those mighty men, To what think you? Even to a _Hen_. He knew he was to use their might To help to keep the door at night, And well bestow'd he though his Hen, That they might Tolebooth _Oxford_ men. He thought it did become a lord To threaten with that bug-bear word. Now pass we to the Civil Law, And eke the doctors of the spaw, Who all perform'd their parts so well, Sir _Edward Ratcliff_ bore the bell, Who was, by the king's own appointment, To speak of Spells and Magic Ointment. The Doctors of the Civil Law, Urged ne'er a reason worth a straw; And though they went in silk and satten, They, _Thomson_-like clip'd the king's Latine; But yet his Grace did pardon then All treasons against _Priscian_. Here no man spoke aught to the point, But all they said was out of joint; Just like the Chappel ominous, In th' Colledge called _God with us_, Which truly doth stand much awry, Just north and south, _yes verily_. Philosophers did well their parts, Which proved them Masters of the Arts; Their Moderator was no fool, He far from _Cambridge_ kept a school: The country did such store afford, The Proctors might not speak a word. But to conclude, the king was pleased, And of the court the town was eased: But Oxford though (dear sister hark it) The king is gone but to New-Market, And comes again ere it be long, Then you may sing another song. The king being gone from _Trinitie_, They make a scramble for degree; Masters of all sorts and all ages, Keepers, subsizers, lackayes, pages, Who all did throng to come abroad, With _pray make me_ now, _good my Lord_.