the gaiety of my conversation, and the gallantry of my dancing, I charmed the fair sex wherever I came. Signor Giusippe,'" (he was now Count Haynes!) "says one, 'when will you help me to

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string my lute?' Signor Giusippe,' says another, 'shall we see you at night in the grotto behind the Duke's palace?" Signor Giusippe,' says a third, when will you teach me the last new song you made for the Prince of Tuscany?' and so, i'faith they Giusipped me, till I had sworn at least to a dozen assignations."

His waggery was amusing to all who were not the butts of it. He once kept a merchant that had a laced-band which reached from shoulder to shoulder, two good hours in a coffee-house near the Exchange, while he explained the meaning of chevaux de frize; telling him there were horses in Frize-land that were bullet-proof! At another time he parleyed with a grocer a full quarter of an hour in the street, inquiring which was the near

John Davies ridicules the coxcombs of his day, that it engrossed the whole of their meal-times in talk of plays, and censuring of players.

"As good play as work for nought, some say,

But players get much good by nought but play."

est way from Fleet Street to the Sun Tavern in Piccadilly; whether down the Strand, and so by Charing Cross; or through Lincoln's Inn Fields and Covent-Garden? though the simpleton declared his spouse sent him post-haste for a doctor, andfor all that Joe knew-made him lose an heirapparent to "some dozen pounds of raisins, as many silver apostle spoons, Stow's London, and Speed's Chronicle.”

His astonished father-confessor, while listening to his sham catalogue of frightful enormities, looked as death-like as a frolicsome party of indigo porters in a dark cellar, by the melancholy light of burnt brandy! "For," said the penitent wag, "last Wednesday I stole a consecrated bell from one of St. Anthony's holy pigs, and coined it into copper farthings! Such a day I pinned a fox's tail on a monk's cowl; and passing by an old gentlewoman sitting in her elbow-chair by the door, reading The Spiritual Carduus-posset for a Sinner's Belly-Ache,'" (this, saving our noble comedian's presence, is more after the fashion of Rabbi Busy, than Friar Peter!) "I abstracted her spectacles from off her venerable purple nose, and

VOL. I.

converted them to the profane use of lighting my tobacco by the sunshine."

"Hark!" said Mr. Bosky, as a voice of cockcrowing cacchination sounded under his window, "there is my St. Bartlemy-tide chorister. For twenty years has Nestor Nightingale proclaimed the joyous anniversary with a new song." And having thrown up the sash, he threw down his accustomed gratuity, and was rewarded with

THE INQUISITIVE FARMER, OR HARLEQUIN HANGMAN.

Harlequin, taking a journey to Bath,

Put up at an inn with his dagger of lath.

He supp'd like a lord,-on a pillow of down

He slept like a king, and he snored like a clown.

Boniface said, as he popp'd in his head,

"In that little crib by the side of your bed,

As honest a farmer as e'er stood in shoes,

(My chambers are full) would be glad of a snooze."

The farmer began, as in clover he lay,

To talk of his clover, his corn-rigs, and hay,
His bullocks, his heifers, his pigs, and his wife;
Not a wink could our Harlequin get for his life.

He reckon'd his herds, and his flocks, and his fleece,
And drove twice to market his ducks and his geese;

He babbled of training, and draining, and scythes,
And hoeing, and sowing, and taxes, and tithes.

"To the fair do you carry a pack, or a hunch?
Are you mountebank doctor, or pedlar, or Punch?
What is your calling? and what is your name?
Are you single, or married,-or coward, or game?"

Poor Harlequin, fretting, lay silent and still,

While the farmer's glib tongue went as fast as a mill. "Where are you going? and whence do you come? How long do you tarry?—the deuce! are you dumb?”

"I'm the hangman,” said Harlequin, "sir, of the town; I cut in the morning a highwayman down ;

And fix in the market-place up, for a flag,
To-morrow his head, which I bear in my bag!"

The talkative farmer jump'd up in a fright

("If you look for the bag, friend, it lies on your right !”) Ran out of the chamber, and roar'd for the host, Shrieking, and shaking, and pale as a ghost!

Boniface listen'd, bolt upright in bed,

To the cock-and-bull story of hangman and head;
And then caught the mountebank, snug on his back,
Holding his sides, which were ready to crack!

Loud laugh'd the landlord at Harlequin's trick.
"As soon," cry'd the farmer, "I'd sup with Old Nick,
As sleep in this room with that gibbetting wag,
With a head on his shoulders, and one in his bag!”

292 MERRIE ENGLAND IN THE OLDEN TIME.

"Bravo, Nestor!" said the Laureat of Little Britain; "Norah Noclack (as the taciturn old lady has grown musical) will draw thee a cup of ale for thy ditty, and make thee free of the buttery.”

ERRATA.

Page 53, for "Winter's evening," read "Winter evening." for "Summer's day," read "Summer day."

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END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY,
Bangor House, Shoe Lane.

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