The Times abuses:OR,
Muld-Sacke his grievances briefly exprest,
S[h]ewing the causes doth his mind molest,
But y[e]t he merry makes, and dedicates
This So[n]g in love to all which baseness hates.
To the [t]une of, Over and under.
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ATtend my Masters and give eare,
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whilst here I doe relate
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The base injurious slanders
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are throwne on me in hate,
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My wrongs and great abuses
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so commonly are knowne,
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As in in a Song to right my wrong,
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shall instantly be showne.
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They call me fudling Muld-Sacke,
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when drinke I have got none,
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Cannot they looke to their businesse,
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and let Muld-Sacke alone.
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If I sometimes a pot or so
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doe drinke for recreation,
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My reckning paid, away I goe,
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and follow my vocation,
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Not any good man grieving
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offensive for to be
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By rooking or deceiving,
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from that my thoughts are free.
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They call me fudling Muld-Sacke,
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when drinke I have got none,
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Cannot they thinke on the blacke Jacke,
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and let Muld-Sacke alone.
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As I along the streets doe sing,
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the people flocke about me,
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No harme to any one I meane,
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yet jeeringly they flout me,
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The Bar-boyes and the Tapsters,
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leave drawing of their Beere,
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And running forth, in haste they cry,
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see where Muld-Sacke comes here.
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Thus am I jeered by them,
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though harme I doe them none,
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Cannot they looke to their small kans,
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and let Muld-Sacke alone.
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The jeering cunning Curtezan,
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and rooking roaring Boy,
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Which day and night doe take delight
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in drunkennesse to joy,
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They with their Pimps and Panders,
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Decoyes, and cheating Knaves,
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Which runs to whores & drinks & roars
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and simple men deceives.
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They have no grace to guide well,
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and conscience they have none,
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Cannot they take heed of Bridewell,
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and let Muld-Sacke alone.
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The Glutton rich that feedeth
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of Biefe and Mutton store,
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And hates the poore that needeth
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which goes from doore to doore,
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And will not spend his money,
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but for the love of drinke,
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And grieves to give a penny,
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so well he loves his chinke.
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Too many such alive is,
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of whom I am sure hes one,
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Cannot he remember Dives,
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and let Muld-Sacke alone.
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The second part. To the same tune.
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TEarme-trotting Petty-foggers,
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which are so fine and nice,
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Will drinke if they meet rightly,
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a cup of Ale and Spice,
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Yet must they take their Chamber,
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before they doe begin,
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And if they can but hide it,
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they thinke it is no sinne.
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When I in the streets walke open,
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to the view of every one,
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Cannot they looke to their Clyents,
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and let Muld-Sacke alone.
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The jeering fleering Coxcombe,
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with hands behind his backe
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All day, which stands from morn til night
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to cry what doe you lacke,
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With scoffing and with taunting,
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will by the sleeve me pull;
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What ist youl buy hel to me cry,
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yet like a brainlesse gull,
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Hel cast on me a scornefull looke,
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though harme I doe him none,
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Cannot he looke to his Shop-booke,
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and let Muld-Sacke alone.
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The Taylors sawcie prentices,
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as I doe passe along,
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They at my head will cast their shreds,
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though I doe them no wrong,
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The saying old hath oft beene told,
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it plaine doth verifie,
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Poore and proud still Taylor like,
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for they most jeeringly
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Doe call me fudling Muld-Sacke,
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though drink I have got none,
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Cannot they keepe their fingers true,
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and let Muld-Sacke alone.
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Also the jeering Tripe-wives,
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which Puddings fell and Sowce,
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Cryes there goes fudling Muld-Sacke,
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doth wine and beere carowse,
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And with disdainfull speeches,
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having no cause at all,
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Will taunt and scoffe and jeer and laugh,
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and basely me miscall.
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And calls me fudling Muld-Sacke,
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though I am no such one,
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Cannot she scrape well her greasie tripes
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and let Muld-Sacke alone.
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The Clownish country Carter,
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will likewise with a jeere,
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Point at me as I goe along,
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his head being fill[]d with beere,
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Yet for his jeeres I care not,
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but laughing lets him passe,
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To follow his Cart with gee, gee ho,
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most like a witlesse Asse,
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For like a home-bred Clownico,
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good manners he knowes none,
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Cannot he looke to his Waggon,
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and let Muld-Sack alone.
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The Bakers in the Suburbs,
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with hearts devoid of pitty,
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Bread light and small they make for all,
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both Country and the City,
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And sometimes of in two penny loafe,
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of weight wants ounces three,
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As merrily I passe them by,
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they cannot let me be.
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They call me fudling Muld-Sacke,
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when drinke I have got none,
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Cannot they looke to their conscience,
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and let Muld-Sacke alone.
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