%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> An excellent new Medly. University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center Director Patricia Fumerton 1619-1619 Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 04/13/2011 30018

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Patricia Fumerton Early Modern Center - English Department University of California Santa Barbara, CA 93105 United States of America EMail: pfumer@english.ucsb.edu

R214082 2 UNKNOWN the Spanish Pauin Spanish Pavan, The The Spanish Pavan VVHen Philomel begins to sing, / the grasse growes green & flowres spring, Roxburghe Ballads Editor None None None None Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 1: 14 An excellent new Medly. An excellent new Medly. An excellent new medley. Printer the Assignes of Thomas Symcocke 1619-1619

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 Early Modern Center Ballad Project Keyword Taxonomy advice affliction/ health alcohol animals/ nature Bible/ biblical figures buildings/ architecture catastrophe children class clothing/ appearance country/ nation crime death economics/ commerce entertainments family folklore gender holidays/ seasons infidelity labor/ craft law London love maritime marriage military/ war monstrosity mythology/ Classical news nobility/ court politics/ government procreation punishment race/ ethnicity religious concepts religious figures religious types & sects royalty rural life servitude sex/ sexuality supernatural/ magic The New World travel trickery/ deceit urban life vice violence virtue vulgarities/ crass humor youth/ age Library of Congress Subject Heading Taxonomy 4/13/2011 Santa Barbara, California, United States of America entertainments folklore Ballads, English 17th century Broadsides, England 17th century 4/13/2011 10:31:12 AM XBallad Meyer, Shannon Created XML Version of Ballad 4/13/2011 10:31:12 AM Transcription Supervisor McAbee, Kristina, Nebeker, Eric Transcription of ballad manuscript 4/13/2011 10:31:12 AM Double-Key Comparison and Merging Zusky, Catherine Transcription of ballad manuscript 4/13/2011 10:31:12 AM Transcriptionist Two Meyer, Shannon Transcription of ballad manuscript 4/13/2011 10:31:12 AM Transcriptionist One Fadel, Meghan Transcription of ballad manuscript 7/20/2010 Checker Amanda Phillips Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 7/2/2008 Bibliographer Giles Bergel Initial Ballad Catalogue Record Created 10/27/2008 Checker Shannon Meyer Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 1/10/2011 Checker Bethany Wong Edited Ballad Catalogue Record
<seg n="1" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">An excellent new Medly. To to tune of the Spanish Pavin.</hi></seg>
When Philomel begins to sing, the grasse growes green & flowres spring, Me thinks it is a pleasant thing, to walk on Primrose hill, Maides have you any Connie-skins To sell for Laces or great Pinnes The Pope will pardon veniall sinnes: Saint Peter, Fresh fish and newes grew quickly stale: Some say good wine can nere want sale, But God send poore folkes Beere & Ale, enough untill they die Most people now are full of pride. The Boy said no but yet he lyde: His Aunt did to the Cuck-stoole ride for scolding. Within our Towne faire Susan dwells: Sure Meg is poysond, for she swels, My friend pull off your b[u]zzards bells, and let the haggard fly Take heed you play not at Tray-trip. Short heeles forsooth will quickly slip. The beadle makes folke with his whip, dance naked. Come tapster tell us whats to pay, Jane frownd and cryde good Sir away. She tooke his kindnesse, yet said nay, as Maidens use to do, The man shall have his Mare agen, When all false knaves prove honest men. Our Sisly shall be Sainted then, true Roger. The Butcher with his masty Dog At Rumford you may buy a Hog, I faith Raph Goose hath got a clog, his wench is great with childe. In Pillory put the Bakers head, For making of such little bread, Good conscience now a dayes is dead, Pierce plowman. The Cutpurse and his Companie Theeves finde receivers presently: Shun Brokers, Bawdes, and Usury, for feare of afcer-claps. Lord, what a wicked world is this The stone lets Kate she cannot pisse: Come hither sweet and take a kisse in kindenesse. In Bath a wanton wife did dwell, She had two buckets to a well, Would not a dog for anger swell, to see a pudding creepe: The Horse-leach is become a Smith, When halters faile then take a With: They say an old man hath no pith, Round Robin. Simon doth suck up all the Egges, Franke never drinks without Nutmegs, And pretty Parnell shewes her legs, as slender as my waste. When faire Jerusalem did stand, The match is made give me thy hand, Maulkin must have a Cambrick band blew starched.
The Cuckow sung hard by the doore, Gyll brawled like a butter whore. Cause her buckeheaded Husband swore the Miller was a knave. Good Poets leave of making playes Let players seek for Souldiers payes I doe not like the drunken fraies, in Smithfield. Now Roysters spurs do gingle brave, John Sexton playd the arrand knave. To digge a Coarse out of the Grave. and steal the sheep away. The wandring Prince of stately Troy Greene sleeves were wont to be my joy, He is a blinde and paultry boy god Cupid. Come hither friend and give good eare, A leg of mutton stuft is rare, Take heed you do not steal my Mare, it is so hot it burns. Behold the tryall of true love, He took a scrich-Owle for a Dove: This man is like ere long to prove a Monster. Tis merry when kinde Maltmen meet: No Cowards fight but in the street, Me thinkes this wench smels very sweet, of Muske, or somewhat else. There was a man did play at Maw, The whilest his wife made him a daw, Your Case is al[t]ered in the law, quoth ployden. The Weaver will no shuttle shoote, Goe bid the Cobler mend my boot He is a foole will go afoot and let his Horse stand still. Did John a Nokes and John a Stiles, Many an honest man beguiles. But all the world is full of wiles and knavery. Of treason and of Traytors spight The house is haunted with a sprit, Now Nan will rise about midnight, and walke to Richards house. You Courtly states and gal[l]ants all, Climbe not too hie for feare you fall: If one please not another shall, King pipping. Diana and her Darlings deere, The Dutchmen ply the double Beere: Boyes rings the bels & make good cheere when Kempe returnes from Rome, O man what meanes thy heavie looke Is Will not in his Mistris Booke, Sir Rouland for a refuge tooke Horne-Castle Rich people have the world at will Trades fade, but Lawiers flourish still, Jacke would be married unto Gyll: but care will kill a Cat. Are you there Sirrah with your Beares, A Barbers shop with nittie haires. Doll, Phillis hath lost both her eares, for coozning.
Who list to lead a souldiers life: Tom would eat meat but wants a knife, The Tinker swore that Tib his wife, would play at uptailes all Beleeve my word without an an Oath The Tailor stole some of her cloath: When George lay sicke & Joane made him broath with Hemlocke. The Patron gelt the parsonage, And Esau sold his heritage, Now Leonard lack-wit is foole age, to be his Fathers heire. Thers many scratch before it itch, Saul did ask counsel of a Witch. Friend, ye may have a Bacon flitch at Dunmow. King David plaid on a Welch Harpe, This threed will never make good warpe At wise mens words each foole will carpe and shoot their witlesse bolts. Jone like a Ram wore hornes and wooll. Knew you my Hostis of the Bull, Spure Curio once was made a gull in Shoreditch The blackamores are blabber lipt, At yarmouth are the Herrings shipt, And at Bride-well the beggers whipt, a man may live and learne, Grief in my heart doth stop my tongue, The poore man still must put up wrong, Your way lies there then walk along, to Witham Theee lies a Lasse that I love well, The Broker hath gay clothes to sell, Which from the Hangmans budget fell, are you no further yet: In Summer times when Peares be ripe, Who would give sixpence for a Tripe, Play Lad or else lend me thy Pipe and Taber. Saint Nicholas Clarkes wil take a purse, Young children now can sweare and curse I hope yee like me nere the worse, for finding fault therewith. The servant is the Masters mate. When gossips meet, thers too much prate Poore Lazarus lies at Dives gate halfe starved, Make hast to Sea, and hoyst up sailes The hogs were servd with milking pales From filth[y] sluts, and from all Joayles, good Lord deliver us all. I scorne to ride a raw boned Jade, Fetch me a Mattocke and a Spade, A Gravesend Toste will soone be made, Saint Dennis, But for to finish up my Song, The Ale-wife did the brewer wrong, One day of sorrow seems as long as ten daies do of mirth, My Medly now is at an end, Have you no Bowles or Trayes to mend Tis hard to finde so true a friend as Damon.
Printed by the Assignes of Thomas Symcocke. FINIS.