SillStil to be neat, stil to be drest
As if you were going to a feast
Stil to be pawdred, stil perfum'd
Lady it is to be presumd
Wher arts hid causes are not found
Al is not Sweet, all is not sound
Give me a looke give me a face
That make simpicity a grace
Robs loosly hanging hair as free
Such swet neclets best pleases me
There all the adulterys of art
May please my eye but not my hart
By Boy,
in Epicoene (1.1.71-82),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS English poetry e. 14, f. 12
Cook Lawrick invited the divell his guest
and bid once in the Peake to dinner
where never freind had such a feast
provided h yet at the cost of a sinner
His stomacke was queasy he came thither coacht
the jogging causd some cruditys to rise
to help him hee cald for a puritan poacht
that use to turne h up the eggs off his eyes
And soe recover'd himself to his wish
he sat him downe to his drincke and to eat
promoter in plumbroth was his first dish
his owne privet chicken had no such meat
Six picled heart tailors shred and cut
Seamsters faire women fit for his pallet
with feathermen and perfumers all put
some 12 in charger to make a grand sallet
A rich fat userer in his marrow
by him on lawer and greene sawce
which use to eat 2 legs of a scarrow
and then goe and his mony case
Ther carbonaded and cookt with paines
was brought up a cloven sergaints face
the sawce was made of a yeomans braines
that had been cloven out with his owne mace
Two wasted sherrifes came next to the board
the feast had nothing been without them
both living and dead they were foxt and furd
ther chaines like sawsages hung about them
The next dish was the maior of ther towne
with a puddin of maintenance put in his belly
like a gouse in his feathers drest in his newold gowne
and cupple of hinch boys boyld for ielly BM at the moment the fact that this extract runs over two folios is not showing up on DEx [same song cont'd; bottom of page non-dramatic]
A London cookold hot from the spit
and when the carver him broken
the divill chops up his head at a bit
but the hornes were very nigh to have chockt him
Yet though with the meat he was much taken
up on a sudden hee sheifted his treancher
as soon as he spyd the baud and bacon
by by which you may know the divill is a wencher
The chine of a leacher to ther was roasted
with a plumpe youg whore's hanch and garlicke
a pander patitoes that had boasted
himself for a captaine yt never was warlike
A lusty fat pasty of a midwife hot
and for a colde bake dish in the story
a reverent painted lady was brought
was coffind in crust till she was hory
To those a overgrowne justice of peace
with a clarke like gyzard thrust under each arme
with a warnent for syppits laid in his owne grease
set over a chafingdish to be kept warme
The joywle of a iailor served for fish
a counstable soust vist vinegar by
two alder men lobsters a sleepe in a dish
a debuty tart and a churchwarden pye
All which devoured he then for a close
Did for a full draught of darby aall call
and heaves the huge vessel in to his nose
and sceast not till hee had druncke up all
BM What is the second word? for a moment I believed it was covfefe?
If I frely may discover
What may pl e ase me in my lover
I would have her faire and witty
Savouring more of court then Citty
A little proud but full of pitty
Light and humorous in her toying
Oft building hopes and soone destroying
Not too easy notnor too hard
All extreams I would have bard
She should be allowd her passions
Soe they were but usd as fashions
Sometime froward and frowning
Sometime sickly and then sowning
Every fitt with chang still crowning
Purly ieas iealous I would have her
Only constant when I crave her
Tis a virtue should not save her
Thus nor her delicats should cloy mee
Nor her peevishnese anoy mee
By Crispinus,
in Poetaster (2.3.135-144),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS English poetry e. 14, f. 21r
Hence all you fond delight
As short as are ye nights
Wherein your spend yr folly
Ther 's nothing truly sweet
If men could truly see't
Save only malancolly
Come foulded armes and fixed eyes
A sight yt pearcing mortifys
A looke yts fastned to ye ground
A toung chan'd without a sound
Fountaine heads and pathlese growes
Places wher pale passion loves
Moonli ght walkes, when all ye fouls
Are warmly housd save bats & owls
A midnight's groanebell a parting groane
These are ye sounds wee feed upon
Then streach your limbs in a still gloomy vally
Thers naught in ye life sweet save melancoly
By Passionate Lord,
in The Nice Valour (3.3),
Francis Beaumont
in Bodleian Library MS English poetry e. 14, f. 84rev