%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> Tho. Brown's RECANTATION / OF HIS / SATYR / ON THE / FRENCH KING. / Facit Recantatio versum. Brown, Thomas University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center English Broadside Ballad Archive (EBBA) Director Patricia Fumerton Associate Director Carl G Stahmer 1697-1697 Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 06/24/2014 32726

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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

R170838 ANd has this Bitch my Muse trapan'd me, / Then I'm as much undone as can be. Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 1: 74 1: 74 Tho. Brown's RECANTATION / OF HIS / SATYR / ON THE / FRENCH KING. / Facit Recantatio versum. Tho. Brown's RECANTATION OF HIS SATYR ON THE FRENCH KING. Facit Recantatio versum. Thomas Brown's RECANTATION OF HIS SATYR ON THE FRENCH KING. Facit Recantatio versum. Brown, Thomas 1697-1697

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 Early Modern Center Ballad Project Keyword Taxonomy advice affliction/ health alcohol Americas animals/ nature Bible/ biblical figures buildings/ architecture catastrophe children class clothing/ appearance country/ nation crime death economics/ commerce entertainments family Featured 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 groups royalty rural life servitude sex/ sexuality supernatural/ magic travel trickery/ deceit urban life vice violence virtue vulgar humor youth/ age Library of Congress Subject Heading Taxonomy 6/24/2014 Santa Barbara, California, United States of America affliction/ health country/ nation Ballads, English 17th century Broadsides, England 17th century 6/24/2014 12:22:57 PM XBallad Chow, Jeremy Created XML Version of Ballad 6/24/2014 12:22:57 PM Transcription Supervisor Meyer, Shannon Transcription of ballad manuscript 6/24/2014 12:22:57 PM Double-Key Comparison and Merging Meyer, Shannon Transcription of ballad manuscript 6/24/2014 12:22:57 PM Transcriptionist Two Oberlander, Lindsay Transcription of ballad manuscript 6/24/2014 12:22:57 PM Transcriptionist One Rendt, Ariel Transcription of ballad manuscript 5/21/2013 Checker William Hildalgo Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 4/1/2013 Checker Shannon Meyer Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 12/3/2012 Checker Shannon Meyer Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 11/24/2012 Checker Shannon Meyer Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 10/8/2012 Checker Shannon Meyer Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 10/5/2012 Bibliographer Shannon Meyer Initial Ballad Catalogue Record Created 10/5/2012 Checker Shannon Meyer Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 10/5/2012 Checker Shannon Meyer Edited Ballad Catalogue Record
<seg n="1" rend="left">Tho. Brown's</seg> <seg n="2" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">RECANTATION</hi></seg> <seg n="3" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">OF HIS</hi></seg> <seg n="4" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">SATYR</hi></seg> <seg n="5" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">ON THE</hi></seg> <seg n="6" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">FRENCH KING.</hi></seg> <seg n="7" rend="left"><hi rend="italic"><hi rend="bold">Facit Recantatio versum.</hi></hi></seg>
ANd has this Bitch my Muse trapan'd me, Then I'm as much undone as can be. I knew the Gilt would never leave me, Till to a Prison she'd deceived me: Curst be the wretch, and sure he's curst That taught the Trade of Rhyming first: 'Tis a damn'd Trade, and who pursues it, I'll pass my word at last he rue's it, Homer and Virgil were but Tools------ Fit only for the use of Fools. And Horrace too with all his Art, To Men of sense not worth a Fart: Even Causabon for Satyr famous, Was but a gingling Ignoramus. And all the rest to Ben. and so forth, A Crew of useless things of no worth: But now I have no time to rail, The Hog hath got another Tail. My Wits are rather on the Wrack, To save my own Poetick Back; Yet by the way, 'tis very hard Poets of all Men should be barr'd, From labouring in their proper Station; Why, Where's the Justice of the Nation? Believe me, Sirs, as I'm a Sinner, I writ this Satyr for a Dinner, And stampt it with the Parsons Name, Not as I meant them any shame. But since I must the Matter tell, I thought 'twould make the Paper sell. By all that's good, all that true is, I ever lov'd and honour'd Lewis: He's Great and Wise, more could I say, But fear again to dis-obey. And for his Priests, I here protest, I value them as all the rest:
And tho' I curst them all, What then? The Men are honest harmless Men. Next for King James and Prince of Wales, I always wish'd them happy Gales; And for my sawcy naming Molly, I own 'twas Impudence and Folly. Lastly, for naming the Non-Juror; Why, that was but Poetick furor. I know I have ungrateful been. 'Twas raging hunger drew me in, To abuse those very Friends that have Almost preserv'd me from the Grave; There honest Men, mark what I say, If I love any Priests 'tis they. I now confess 'tis highly base, To insult o'er Men in such a Case: And could the thing be done again, I'd starve before I'd injure them. What shall I say? I here recant, And own myself a Sycophant: But Oh! I fear that will not do, A thousand dismal Thoughts pursue. I'm all in pain, and let me tell you, My Back begins to curse my Belly. I'm just as if at Cart-arss tyde, With hang-man grinning by my side, And Mob of all sorts crowding round me, Advising Catch to swinge me soundly: And what torments me worst of all, Methinks that some among them bawl, 'Tis he that for a Crown to spend, Reviles Crown'd Heads, betrays his Friend. All this 'tis true I well deserve, And yet 'tis very hard to starve. So that if things were rightly stated, Part of my Sentence might be bated.
I was of Poppins-Ally chief. Till forc'd from thence to seek relief. And to avoid some dangerous Rogues; Took shelter among Paedagogues; 'Twas then like the Sicylian King, Under strict Laws I Boys did bring: And tho' I was but a V[ic]e-Roy, I could command the c[hi]efest Boy. But here a little Time was spent Before I left my Government. I'm charg'd with Male Administration, And so pull'd down from regal Station. To Town again disgrac'd I came, For now 'tis vain to hide my Shame; Where since I sharp'd, and spung'd and tick'd, Been always scorn'd, and sometimes kick'd; And yet the worst is still behind, Oh! hear me out and you'll be kind. For three long Weeks my Muse and I, Had been shut up in Garret high: The Cause I think I need not tell, Poets with Pox convertible. While thus I lay in desperate state, In comes a Baud whose name was Kate; A Rampant Bitch where once I tabled, Who finding me of strength disabled; Not Vows nor Promises could save me, But off she bears the Cloaths she gave me. And thus of Coat, even Shirt bereft, Poor naked Tom. in Bed was left. In this most sharp and strange distress, T'was then I thought on Trusty Bess; Who tho' I knew she was but poor, I always found a faithful Whore. To her without a long Petition, I briefely told my sad Condition. But I forget to tell you how, With hot Ox-cheek, and heel of Cow: With Trotters neat and Tripe like Jelly, She oft had fill'd my empty Belly. And one thing more I had forgot, Hot Furmety and Rice-milk hot. She never let me want, for why? It was her Trade the same to Cry.
I thought (poor fool) she pittyed me, And thus resolve's to set me free------. With twenty pence which she had got; And shillings four for loan of pot. To some convenient bulk she hies, And there a Coat and Breeches buyes. The want of Shirt too to supply------, Sends me her Smock tho' hardly dry. And more to fit me out compleat, For th' other three pence buys a Cheat. When thus equipp'd abroad I venture, Hopeing on projects new to enter: But all my hopes prove vain God wot; Bess still must want her porridge-pot. My belly too grows lank, for she Had no Rice-milk nor Furmety. All Friends I try'd not one was willing, To credit me with one poor shilling. In this distress without adviseing, I fell to cursed Satyrising. Oh! pitty me or I am lost, Far worst than when in blanket tost. And if this time I'm spar'd from whipping, If e'er again you catch me tripping, May all the plagues that are befel, On Poet poor on this side Hell: Seize me at once, and may I be, A publick mark of Infamy. May all my Whores and Dunes o'ertake me, And all my Friends even Bess forsake me. And may the Pox with which I struggle; Joyn'd with the Gout afflict me double: May I at Last by Inches Die, First loose my nose and then an Eye. And when I am dead, then may I have, This just Memento on my Grave: Here Lie's T.B. of Life and fame bereft: Here lie's I mean all that the Pox hath left. There let him lie, a Wretch too mean for scorning, To all ungrateful Scriblers a long Warning.
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