A Total Rout, Or a Brief discovery,
Of a Pack of Knaves and Drabs, intituled Pimps, panders, Hectors, Trapans, Nappers,
Mobs, and Spanners: the description of their qualities, is here set down in brief.
|
YOU Princely Hectors of the Town,
|
Who like the Devil strut up and down.
|
Come leave your God dammees, and herken to me,
|
O 'tis pitty that fuel for Hell you should be:
|
Your Spirits Heroick, will quickly be quell'd
|
When once the General Sessions are held,
|
For hee's not a Gentleman, that wears a sword,
|
And fears to swear Dammee at every word.
|
No Justice of Peace, nor Constables Bill
|
Can move your brave courages for to be still.
|
Superiour Spirits, which know not to bow,
|
Like Pompey no equal can pleasing allow;
|
'Twere sin to be subject, Go courages brave,
|
Subjection does only but Christen a slave.
|
For hee's not a Gentleman that wears a sword,
|
And fears to swear Dammee at every word.
|
But hark my poor Ranter, ile tell thee a tale
|
Thy cursings and bannings will buy thee no Ale:
|
Ile bring thee a Broom-stick, or an Orange-taild slut.
|
(With eight-pence in pock, ready dried and cut.)
|
Shall out vapour thee more with a confident face.
|
And sooner be trusted in a desperate case.
|
Then prethee poor Hector go pawn 'way thy sword
|
And cease to swear Dammee at every word.
|
For why? the Ale-brokers have vowed & protested,
|
(And I think they will keep it, unless they be basted)
|
To trust you no longer resolved they be,
|
For building of Sconces both one, two, and three.
|
Damne, damne ye, youl pay 'um today, or tomorrow,
|
But next day is come, yet they do still borrow:
|
Fie, fie Sir, a Gentleman and wear a sword,
|
Yet break your God-dammees at every word.
|
The Taylor comes oft with a pestilent Bill,
|
And faith he may come as oft as he will,
|
But be little the better, unless for his pains
|
With Dammees, and Rammees you addle his brains:
|
Poor Snip, does return as light as he came,
|
Home goes, and complains to his Stomachy Dame,
|
Who rants, and tears, not afraid to be heard,
|
And straps him, and raps him with top of the yard.
|
Then prethee my Ranter, that wearest a sword.
|
Turn honest, and once be as good as thy word.
|
The Turn-ball Whores cry they are undone,
|
And must to Virginia pack one by one,
|
And in truth they'l inrich that beggerly Nation.
|
For never such Planters came to a Plantation.
|
You stole 'way their smocks, and petticoats all;
|
Besides did not pay 'um for what you did call.
|
Fie, fie, my base Ranter, this is but a poor,
|
A shabbed come oft to plunder a Whore.
|
But this is not all I have to say,
|
I heard a complaint the other day,
|
Of a Gentleman walking, in Lincolns Inne fields,
|
Whom basely you took and kickt up his heeles,
|
Div'd into his pocket, and took ten and three pence.
|
You would not have spard it if it had bin but fipence
|
Thus poverty makes you Gentlemen bold,
|
Turn Levellers all for another mans gold.
|
But tarry, you spard not his cloak as I take it.
|
Twere sinne I confess as you Hectors do make it,
|
To suffer superfluous Coats on another,
|
When he that hath two must give one to his brother
|
But then to the Brokers this garment must march,
|
And woe to the fellow if there come a search,
|
Thus one, two and three are ruind together,
|
Whilst you at the Tavern crak knaves of a feather.
|
And if it fall out the Constable snaps ye,
|
How many twice doubled God dammees out raps ye
|
That the Constable and his train shall pay,
|
For abusing such Gentlemen cleer as the day,
|
Who scorn to own ignoble designes,
|
But have meanes and have Mannors to satisfie Fines.
|
But hang't my poor Ranter thou canst not devise,
|
To daube up the Constables month with thy lyes.
|
Away you are guarded to Newgate and then,
|
Y'are sure of a Lodging when honester men,
|
Exposd to the weather contentedly want one,
|
And you to your minds, I doe believe han't one,
|
But patience perforce, My Ranters you know,
|
Is medicine for mad dogs, and very well so,
|
And now my good Reader canst tell me what ayle,
|
My Ranter to be coopt up in a Gaile.
|
Now off goes the silver lace from the Coat.
|
The buttons so needless and the points to boot,
|
Two shirts are too many and rather then faile,
|
One must be chang'd for Tobacco and Ale.
|
These Hats are but toyes superfluous; come,
|
Our heads may be cold not wet in this roome,
|
Then hang't call a Broker, and let him bring chink
|
Weel sel him our hats, yea our heads for good drink
|
But oh my poore Ranter, thus totterd and torne,
|
And almost as naked as ere thou wert born:
|
What meanst thou to live so damnably base,
|
And dye in a Gaile tis a desperate case,
|
Damnation and Hell comes poasting together,
|
And without repentance thou shalt suffer either,
|
Thy cursed God dammees, and damnable cheats,
|
Ungodly endeavours, and horrible feats,
|
Are all Cable ropes, to draw thee to Hell,
|
But yet prithee Ranter repent, so Farewell.
|
|
|
|
|
|