And first he rails on Cambridge, And thinkes her to disgrace, By calling her _Lutetia_, And throws dirt in her face: But leave it, scholler, leave it, For all the world must grant, If Oxford be thy mother, Then Cambridge is thy aunt. Then goes he to the town, And puts it all in starch, For other rhyme he could not find To fit the seventh of March: But leave it, scholler, leave it, For I must vail the bonnet, And cast the caps at Cambridge For making song and sonnet. Thence goes he to their present, And there he doth purloyne, For looking in their plate He nimmes away their coyne: But leave it, scholler, leave it, For ’tis a dangerous thing To steal from corporations The presents of a king. Next that, my lord vice-chancellor He brings before the prince, And in the face of all the court He makes his horse to wince. But leave it, scholler, leave it, For sure that jest did faile, Unless you clapt a nettle Under his horse’s taile. Then aimes he at our orator, And at his speech he snarles, Because he forced a word, and called The prince “most Jacob-Charles.” But leave it, scholler, leave it, For he did it compose That puts you down as much for tongue As you do him for nose. Then flies he to our comedies, And there he doth professe He saw among our actors A perfect diocess. But leave it, scholler, leave it, ’Twas no such witty fiction, For since you leave the vicar out, You spoile the jurisdiction. Next that he backes the hobby-horse, And with a scholler’s grace, Not able to endure the trott, He’d bring him to the pase: But leave it, scholler, leave it, For you will hardly do it, Since all the riders in your muse Could never bring him to it. Polonia land can tell, Through which he oft did trace, And bore a fardell at his back, He nere went other pace. But leave him, scholler, leave him, He learned it of his sire, And if you put him from his trott Hee’l lay you in the myre. Our horse has thrown his rider; But now he meanes to shame us, And in the censuring of our play Conspires with Ignoramus. But leave it, scholler, leave it, And call ’t not “God knows what,” Your head was making ballads When you should mark the plot. His fantasie, still working, Finds out another crotchet; Then runs he to the bishop, And rides upon his rotchet. But leave it, scholler, leave it, And take it not in snuff, For he that weares no picadell By law may weare a ruffe.