“Ye wil say, the Spaniards kepe their olde rentaking: how can that be, when euery poore man must pay yerely for euery chimney in his house, and euery other place that is to make fire in, as ouen, fornes, and smithes forge, a Frenche crowne? wil Englishmen, or can thei, suffer to be poled and pilled moste miserably, in payeng continually suche poling pence and intollerable tollages for all maner graine and breade, befe, beare and mutton, goose, pigge and capone, henne, mallard and chicken, milk, butter and chese, egges, apples & peares, | wine white and reade, | with all other wines beside, | salt white and graye? | al thinges must pay; | small nuttes and wallnuttes, | cheries and chestnuttes, | plumbes, damassens, philbeardes, and al | both gret & smal, | whatsoeuer thei maye se, | to fede the pore commenalte; | salmon and hearing; | this is a shamefull thing; | tench, ele or conger; | this shall kepe vs vnder, | and make vs die for hunger; | flounders, floucke, plaice or carpe; | here is a miserable warke | that Englande must abide | to maintaine Spanishe pride,” &c. Sig. F ii. * * * * * From _Doctour Doubble Ale_,—12mo, without printer’s name or date. “Although I lacke intelligence, And can not skyll of eloquence, Yet wyll I do my diligence To say sumthing or I go hence, Wherein I may demonstrate The figure, gesture, and estate Of one that is a curate, That harde is and endurate, And ernest in the cause Of piuish popish lawes, That are not worth two strawes, Except it be with dawes, That knoweth not good from euels, Nor Gods worde from the deuels, Nor wyll in no wise heare The worde of God so cleare, But popishnes vpreare, And make the pope Gods peare. ... Now let vs go about To tell the tale out Of this good felow stout, That for no man wyll dout, But kepe his olde condicions For all the newe comyssions, And vse his supersticions, And also mens tradycions, And syng for dead folkes soules, And reade hys beaderolles, And all such thinges wyll vse As honest men refuse: But take hym for a cruse, And ye wyll tell me newes; For if he ons begyn, He leaueth nought therin; He careth not a pyn How much ther be wythin, So he the pot may wyn, He wyll it make full thyn; And wher the drinke doth please There wyll he take his ease, And drinke therof his fyll, Tyll ruddy be his byll; And fyll both cup and can, Who is so glad a man As is our curate than? I wolde ye knewe it, a curate Not far without Newgate; Of a parysh large The man hath mikle charge, And none within this border That kepeth such order, Nor one a this syde Nauerne Louyth better the ale tauerne: But if the drinke be small, He may not well withall; Tush, cast it on the wall! It fretteth out his gall; Then seke an other house, This is not worth a louse, As dronken as a mouse, _Monsyre gybet a vous!_ And ther wyll byb and bouse,