Much a-do, about Nothing:
OR,
A Song made of Nothing, the newest in Print;
He that seriously mindes it, will find All-things in't.
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ILe sing you a Sonnet, that nere was in Print,
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'Tis truly and newly come out of the Mint,
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But i'le tell you before hand, you'l find No-thing in't.
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On Nothing I think, on Nothing I Write,
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For Nothing I Covet, yet Nothing I Slight,
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And I care not a Pin, if I get Nothing by't.
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Fire, Aire, Earth and Water, Beasts, Birds, Fish and Men,
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Did start out of Nothing, a Chaos, a Den;
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And all things shall turn into Nothing agen.
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It's Nothing sometimes that makes many things hit,
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As when a Fool amongst Wise men doth silently sit,
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A Fool that sayes Nothing, may pass for a Wit.
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What one Man doth love, is another Man's loathing,
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This Blade loves a quick thing, & that loves a slow thing,
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And both in the very Conclusion love Nothing.
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Your Slashing and Clashing, and Flashing of Wit,
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Doth start out of Nothing, but Fancy and Fit,
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It's little or Nothing to what hath been Writ.
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When first we together by the Ears did fall,
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Then Something got Nothing, and Nothing got All,
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From Nothing it came, unto Nothing it shall.
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That Party which Sealed to a Covenant in hast,
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Who made King and Kingdom, and Churches lye wast,
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Their Projects and all came to Nothing at last.
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They raised an Army of Horse and of Foot,
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To tumble down Monarchy, Branch and Root,
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They Thunder'd & Plunder'd, but Nothing would do't.
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The Organ and Altar, and Ministers Clothing,
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In Presbyter-Jack did beget such a lothing,
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That he must needs set up a Petty-new-Nothing.
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And when he had Rob'd us in Sanctified Clothing,
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And Perjur'd the People by Faithing and Trothing,
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But at last was Catch'd, and all came to Nothing.
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Where War and Rebellion, and Plundring grows,
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The Mendicant-man is freest from Foes,
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For he is most Happy, hath Nothing to lose.
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Brave Caesar and Pompey, and Great Alexander,
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Whom Armies did follow, as Goose follows Gander,
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Have Nothing to say to an Action of Slander.
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The wisest great Prince, were he never so stout,
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Could he Conquer the World, and give Mankind a Rout,
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Did bring Nothing in, nor shall bear Nothing out.
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Old Noll that did rise up to high-thing, from low-thing,
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By Brewing Rebellion, and Nicking and Frothing,
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In Seven years distance, was All things and Nothing.
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Dick (Olivers Heir) that pittiful slow-thing,
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Who once was Invested with Purple Clothing,
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Now stands for a Cipher, and a Cipher is Nothing.
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If King-killers are excluded from bliss,
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Old Bradshaw (that feels the Reward on't by this)
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Had better been Nothing, then what now he is.
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Your Gallant that lives by fine Meat, Drink, & Clothing,
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Who was th'other day, but a pittiful low-thing,
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Payes Butcher, and Baker, and Draper, with Nothing.
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The nimble tongu'd Lawyer that Pleads for his Pay,
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When Death doth Arrest him, and carry him away,
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At the General Bar, will have Nothing to say.
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If any here tax me with weakness of Wit,
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And say that of Nothing, I Nothing have Writ,
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I shall Answer Ex Nihilo, nihil fit.
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Yet let his Discretion be never so tall,
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This very word Nothing, shall give it a fall,
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For in Writing of Nothing, I comprehend all.
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Let every man give the Poet his due,
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'Cause then 'twas with him, as now it's with you,
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He studied it, when he had Nothing to do.
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This very word Nothing, if took the right way,
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May prove advantagious, for what would you say,
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If the Vintner should tell you, there's Nothing to Pay?
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