And now the favorites of the clarke of th' checke, Who oft haue yaun'd, and strech't out many a

neck

Twixt noone and morning; the dull feeders on
Fresh patience, and raisins of the sunne,

They, who had liv'd in th' hall seaven houres atleast,
As if twere an arraignment, not a feast;
And look't soe like the hangings they stood nere,
None could discerne which the true pictures were;
These now shall be refresh't, while the bold drumme
Strikes up his frollick, through the hall they come.
Here might I end, my lord, and here subscribe
Your honours to his power: But Oh, what bribe,
What feare or mulct can make my muse refraine,
When shee is urg'd of nature and disdaine?

Not all the guard shall hold mee, I must write, Though they should sweare and lye how they would fight,

If I procede: nay, though the captaine say,

Hold him, or else you shall not eate to day;

Those goodly yeomen shall not scape my pen; 'T was dinner-time, and I must speake of men; So to the hall made I, with little care

To praise the dishes, or to tast the fare;
Much lesse t' endanger the least tart, or pye
By any waiter there stolne, or sett by;
But to compute the valew of the meate,
Which was for glory, not for hunger eate;
Nor did I feare, (stand back) who went before
The presence, or the privy-chamber doore.
And woe is mee, the guard, those men of warre,
Who but two weapons use, beife, and the barre,
Began to gripe mee, knowing not in truth,
That I had sung John Dory in my youth;
Or that I knew the day when I could chaunt
Chevy, and Arthur, and the Seige of Gaunt.

And though these be the vertues which must try
Who are most worthy of their curtesy,

They profited mee nothing for no notes

Will move them now, they're deafe in their new

coates:

་

Wherefore on mee afresh they fall, and show
Themselves more active then before, as though
They had some wager lay'd, and did contend
Who should abuse mee furthest at armes end.
One I remember with a grisly beard,

And better growne then any of the heard;
One, were he well examin'd, and made looke
His name in his owne parish and church booke,
Could hardly prove his christendome; and yet
It seem'd he had two names, for there were writt
On a white canvasse doublett that he wore,
Two capitall letters of a name before;

1

Letters belike which hee had spew'd and spilt,
When the great bumbard leak't, or was a tilt.
This Ironside tooke hold, and sodainly

Hurled mee, by judgment of the standers by,

Some twelve foote by the square; takes mee againe,

Out-throwes it halfe a bar; and thus wee twaine

At this hot exercise an hower had spent,

Hee the feirce agent, I the instrument.

My man began to rage, but I cry'd, Peace,

When he is dry or hungry he will cease:

Hold, for the Lords sake, Nicholas, lest they take

us,

And use us worse then Hercules us'd Cacus.

And now I breath, my lord, now have I time
To tell the cause, and to confesse the crime :
I was in black; a scholler straite they guest;
Indeed I colour'd for it at the least.

I spake them faire, desir'd to see the hall,
And gave them reasons for it, this was all;
By which I learne it is a maine offence,

So neere the clark of th' check to utter sense:
Talk of your emblemes, maisters, and relate
How Æsope hath it, and how Alciate;

The Cock and Pearle, the Dunghill and the Jemme,
This passeth all to talke sence amongst them.
Much more good service was committed yet,

Which I in such a tumult must forget;

But shall I smother that prodigious fitt,
Which pass'd Heons invention, and pure witt?
As this: A nimble knave, but something fatt,
Strikes at my head, and fairly steales my hatt:
Another breakes a jest, (well, Windsor, well,
What will ensue thereof there's none can tell,
When they spend witt, serve God) yet twas not

much,

Although the clamours and applause were such, As when salt Archy or Garret doth provoke them 10, And with wide laughter and a cheat-loafe choake them.

10 These reverend gentlemen were jesters to James the First. The name of the former, was Archibald Armstrong, of whom and of whose jests an account may be found in Granger, vol. ii. p. 399. ed. 1775. 8vo. They are again joined in a manuscript poem (penes me) by Peter Heylin, written in derision of Barten Holiday's play already mentioned in the life of the bishop, of which the following are the introductory lines:

Whoop Holyday! why then 't will ne'er be better,

Why all the guard, that never saw more letters

Than those upon their coates; whose wit consists
In Archy's bobs and Garret's sawcy jests,

Deride our Christ-church scene."