html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Heare me you Men of strife! you that have bin,
Long time maintain'd by the dull Peoples sin,
At Lyon's, Furnifold's, and clement's Inne!
With huge, o're-comming Mutton, Target-Cheese,
Beefe, that the queasie stomack'd Guard would please,
And limber Groats, full halfe a Score for Fees.
Heare you Gown'd Lackeys that en both sides plead!
Whose hollow Teeth, are stuff'd with others Bread;
Whole Tongues will live (sure) when your selves are dead.
Here you Alcaldos, whose sterne faces looke,
Worse than your Pris'ner's that's deny'd his Booke;
Than Pilat painted like a scalded Cooke.
Lift all that toyle for pow'r to doe Men wrong,
With penseve Eare, to my prophetick Song!
Whose Magick sayes, your Triumphs hold not long.
The time is come, you on your selves shall sit;
Whilst Children finde (if they endevour it)
Your learning, Chronicle; Clinches, your Wit.
Ere you a Yeare are dead, your Sonnes shall watch,
And rore all Night with Ale, in house of Thatch;
And spend, 'till Swords are worne in Belts of Match.
Whilst Dover (that his knowledge not imploy's
T'increase his Neighbors Quarrels, but their Joyes;)
Shall in his age; get Money, Girles, and Boyes!
Mony, at Cotswald Games shall yearely fly;
Whilst the Precise, and Envious shall stand by,
And see his Min'rall Fountaine never dry.
His Girles, shall dowr'-lesse w•d with Heires of birth;
His Boyes, plough London Widowes up like earth:
Whilst Cotswald Bards caroll their Nuptiall Mirth!
Dover (the Gentry's Darling) know this frame,
Is but a willing tribute to thy Fame,
Sung by a Poet, that conceals his name.