The Dagonizing of Bartholomew Fayre, caused through the
Lord Majors Command, for the battering downe the vanities of
the Gentiles, comprehended in Flag and Pole, ap-
pertayning to Puppet-play.
The 23. of August being the day before the Apostolicke Fayre.
|
ON August's foure and twentieth Eve,
|
The Cities Soveraigne and the Shrieve
|
To Smithfield came if you'l beleeve
|
to see th'ungodly flagges.
|
The Livery men were sore put too't,
|
Though some wore shoe, and some wore boot,
|
They 'wre all constraind to trans on foot,
|
God save 'em.
|
Entring through Duck-lane at the Crowne,
|
The soveraigne Cit began to frowne,
|
As if 't abated his rewowne,
|
the paint did so o'retop him.
|
Downe with these Dagons then, quoth he,
|
They outbrave my dayes Regality,
|
For's pride and partiality
|
Jove crop him.
|
Ile have no puppet-playes, quoth he,
|
The harmlesse-mirth displeaseth me,
|
Begun on August twenty three,
|
full twelve howres too early.
|
A Yonker then began to laugh,
|
'Gainst whom the Major advanc't white staffe,
|
And sent him to the Compter safe,
|
sans parly.
|
Another wight (in wofull wise)
|
Besought the Major, his pupetries,
|
That he would not Babell-onize,
|
surely they were not whorish.
|
Oh do'nt my bratts Isabellize,
|
They ne're did Meretritialize
|
Betwixt your Lordships Ladies thighes,
|
peace Villaine.
|
Another Mortall had a clout,
|
Which on a long pole did hang out,
|
At which the Major turned up his snout,
|
for he was then advancing.
|
Mounted with him came both the Shrieves,
|
And Catchpoles with their hanging slieves,
|
They shew'd much like a den of theev's
|
though prauncing.
|
With that my Lord did silence breake,
|
He op'd his mouth and thus did speake,
|
Tis fittest quoth he that the weake
|
unto the walls should goe.
|
There was a Varlet (close at hand)
|
To execute (Gold chaines) command
|
Pull'd wight away straight, notwithstand-
|
-ing, fowle twas.
|
He that shew'd wonders made of waxe,
|
Spoke in behalfe of his fine knacks,
|
Quoth he, we spit no fire of flax,
|
nor such like puppet showes.
|
Besides we shew his Excellence,
|
Quoth Major, that is a faire pretence,
|
Gods-nigs tis time that I were hence
|
s'away'h goes.
|
On top of Booth sat pudding John,
|
(Lord would be loath to sit thereon,)
|
I'me sure he wisht his Lordship gone,
|
yet durst not tell him so.
|
But when his Lordship left the Fayre,
|
John set up throat did rend the Ayre,
|
And glad he was, he lowd did sweare
|
he was gone.
|
|
|
|
|
|