A CERTAIN POEM,

As it was presented in Latine by Divines and others before His Majesty in Cambridge, by way of Enterlude, styled Liber novus de Adventu Regis ad Cantabrigiam. Faithfully done into English, with some liberal Additions. Made rather to be sunge than read, to the Tune of Bonny Nell.

(The Notes are from a MS. copy in the Editor’s possession.)

It is not yet a fortnight since

Lutetia[39] entertain’d our prince,

And vented hath a studied toy

As long[40] as was the siege of Troy:

And spent herself for full five days

In speeches, exercise, and plays.

To trim the town, great care before

Was tane by th’ lord vice-chancellor;

Both morn and even he cleans’d the way,

The streets he gravelled thrice a day:

One strike of March-dust for to see

No proverb[41] would give more than he.

Their colledges were new be-painted,

Their founders eke were new be-sainted;

Nothing escap’d, nor post, nor door,

Nor gate, nor rail, nor bawd, nor whore:

You could not know (Oh strange mishap!)

Whether you saw the town or map.

But the pure house of Emanuel[42]

Would not be like proud Jesabel,

Nor shew her self before the king

An hypocrite, or painted thing:

But, that the ways might all prove fair,

Conceiv’d a tedious mile of prayer.

Upon the look’d-for seventh[43] of March,

Outwent the townsmen all in starch,

Both band and beard, into the field,

Where one a speech could hardly wield;

For needs he would begin his stile,

The king being from him half a mile.

They gave the king a piece of plate,

Which they hop’d never came too late;

But cry’d, Oh! look not in, great king,

For there is in it just nothing:

And so prefer’d with tune and gate,

A speech as empty as their plate.

Now, as the king came neer the town,

Each one ran crying up and down,

Alas poor Oxford, thou’rt undone,

For now the king’s past Trompington,

And rides upon his brave gray dapple,

Seeing the top of Kings-Colledge chappel.

Next rode his lordship[44] on a nag,

Whose coat was blue[45], whose ruff was shag,

And then began his reverence

To speak most eloquent non-sense:

See how (quoth he) most mighty prince,

For very joy my horse doth wince.

What cryes the town? What we? (said he)

What cryes the University?

What cry the boys? What ev’ry thing?

Behold, behold, yon comes the king:

And ev’ry period he bedecks

With En & Ecce venit Rex.

Oft have I warn’d (quoth he) our dirt

That no silk stockings should be hurt;

But we in vain strive to be fine,

Unless your graces sun doth shine;

And with the beams of your bright eye,

You will be pleas’d our streets to dry.

Now come we to the wonderment

Of Christendom, and eke of Kent,

The Trinity; which to surpass,

Doth deck her spokesman[46] by a glass:

Who, clad in gay and silken weeds,

Thus opes his mouth, hark how he speeds.

I wonder what your grace doth here,

Who have expected been twelve year,

And this your son, fair Carolus,

That is so Jacobissimus[47]:

Here’s none, of all, your grace refuses,

You are most welcome to our Muses.

Although we have no bells to jangle,

Yet can we shew a fair quadrangle,

Which, though it ne’re was grac’d with king,

Yet sure it is a goodly thing:

My warning’s short, no more I’le say,

Soon you shall see a gallant play.

But nothing was so much admir’d,

As were their plays so well attir’d;

Nothing did win more praise of mine,

Then did their actors most divine[48]:

So did they drink their healths divinely;

So did they dance and skip so finely.

Their plays had sundry grave wise factors,

A perfect diocess of actors

Upon the stage; for I am sure that

There was both bishop, pastor, curat:

Nor was their labour light, or small,

The charge of some was pastoral.

Our plays were certainly much worse,

For they had a brave hobby-horse,

Which did present unto his grace

A wondrous witty ambling pace:

But we were chiefly spoyl’d by that

Which was six hours of God knows what[49].

His lordship then was in a rage,

His lordship lay upon the stage,

His lordship cry’d, All would be marr’d:

His lordship lov’d a-life the guard,

And did invite those mighty men,

To what think you? Even to a Hen.

He knew he was to use their might

To help to keep the door at night,

And well bestow’d he thought his hen,

That they might Tolebooth[50] Oxford men:

He thought it did become a lord

To threaten with that bug-bear word.

Now pass we to the civil law,

And eke the doctors of the spaw,

Who all perform’d their parts so well,

Sir Edward Ratcliff[51] bore the bell,

Who was, by the kings own appointment,

To speak of spells, and magick oyntment.

The doctors of the civil law

Urg’d ne’re a reason worth a straw;

And though they went in silk and satten,

They Thomson-like[52] clip’d the kings Latine;

But yet his grace did pardon then

All treasons against Priscian.

Here no man spake ought to the point,

But all they said was out of joint;

Just like the chappel ominous

I’ the colledge called God with us:

Which truly[53] doth stand much awry,

Just north and south, yes verily.

Philosophers did well their parts,

Which prov’d them masters of their arts;

Their moderator was no fool,

He far from Cambridge kept a school:

The country did such store afford,

The proctors might not speak a word.

But to conclude, the king was pleas’d,

And of the court the town was eas’d:

Yet Oxford though (dear sister) hark yet,

The king is gone but to New-market,

And comes again e’re it be long,

Then you may make another song.

The king being gone from Trinity,

They make a scramble for degree;

Masters of all sorts, and all ages,

Keepers, subcizers, lackeyes, pages,

Who all did throng to come aboard,

With Pray make me now, Good my lord.

They prest his lordship wondrous hard,

His lordship then did want the guard;

So did they throng him for the nonce,

Until he blest them all at once,

And cryed, Hodiissimè:

Omnes Magistri estote.

Nor is this all which we do sing,

For of your praise the world must ring:

Reader, unto your tackling look,

For there is coming forth a book

Will spoyl Joseph Barnesius

The sale of Rex Platonicus.

AN
ANSWER TO THE FORMER SONG,
IN LATIN AND ENGLISH,
BY ⸺ LAKES.

(From an Autograph in the Editor’s possession.)

A ballad late was made,

But God knowes who ’es the penner,

Some say the rhyming sculler,

And others say ’twas Fenner[54]:

But they that know the style

Doe smell it by the collar,

And do maintaine it was the braine

Of some yong Oxford scholler.

And first he rails on Cambridge,

And thinkes her to disgrace,

By calling her Lutetia,

And throws dirt in her face:

But leave it, scholler, leave it,

For all the world must grant,

If Oxford be thy mother,

Then Cambridge is thy aunt.

Then goes he to the town,

And puts it all in starch,

For other rhyme he could not find

To fit the seventh of March:

But leave it, scholler, leave it,

For I must vail the bonnet,

And cast the caps at Cambridge

For making song and sonnet.

Thence goes he to their present,

And there he doth purloyne,

For looking in their plate

He nimmes away their coyne:

But leave it, scholler, leave it,

For ’tis a dangerous thing

To steal from corporations

The presents of a king.

Next that, my lord vice-chancellor

He brings before the prince,

And in the face of all the court

He makes his horse to wince.

But leave it, scholler, leave it,

For sure that jest did faile,

Unless you clapt a nettle

Under his horse’s taile.

Then aimes he at our orator,

And at his speech he snarles,

Because he forced a word, and called

The prince “most Jacob-Charles.”

But leave it, scholler, leave it,

For he did it compose

That puts you down as much for tongue

As you do him for nose.

Then flies he to our comedies,

And there he doth professe

He saw among our actors

A perfect diocess.

But leave it, scholler, leave it,

’Twas no such witty fiction,

For since you leave the vicar out,

You spoile the jurisdiction.

Next that he backes the hobby-horse,

And with a scholler’s grace,

Not able to endure the trott,

He’d bring him to the pase:

But leave it, scholler, leave it,

For you will hardly do it,

Since all the riders in your muse

Could never bring him to it.

Polonia land can tell,

Through which he oft did trace,

And bore a fardell at his back,

He nere went other pace.

But leave him, scholler, leave him,

He learned it of his sire,

And if you put him from his trott

Hee’l lay you in the myre.

Our horse has thrown his rider;

But now he meanes to shame us,

And in the censuring of our play

Conspires with Ignoramus.

But leave it, scholler, leave it,

And call ’t not “God knows what,”

Your head was making ballads

When you should mark the plot.

His fantasie, still working,

Finds out another crotchet;

Then runs he to the bishop,

And rides upon his rotchet.

But leave it, scholler, leave it,

And take it not in snuff,

For he that weares no picadell

By law may weare a ruffe.

Next that he goes to dinner,

And, like an hardy guest,

When he had cramm’d his belly full

He railes against the feast.

But leave it, scholler, leave it;

For, since you eat his roast,

It argues want of manners

To raile upon the host.

Now listen, masters, listen,

That tax us for our riot,

For here two men went to a ken,

So slender was the diet.

Then leave him, scholler, leave him,

He yieldes himself your debtor,

And next time he’s vice-chancellor

Your table shall be better.

Then goes he to the Regent-house,

And there he sits and sees

How lackeys and subsisers press

And scramble for degrees.

But leave it, scholler, leave it,

’Twas much against our mind,

But when the prison doors are ope

Noe thief will stay behind.

Behold, more anger yet:

He threatens us ere long,

When as the king comes back againe,

To make another song.

But leave it, scholler, leave it,

Your weakness you disclose;

For “Bonny Nell” doth plainly tell

Your wit lies all in prose.

Nor can you make the world

Of Cambridge praise to singe,

A mouth so foul no market eare

Will stand to hear it sing.

Then leave it, scholler, leave it,

For yet you cannot say,

The king did go from you in March

And come again in May.

RESPONSIO, &c.
PER
⸺ LAKES.

Facta est cantilena,

Sed nescio quo autore;

An fluxerit ex remige,

An ex Fenneri ore.

Sed qui legerunt, contendunt,

Esse hanc tenelli

Oxoniensis nescio cujus

Prolem cerebelli.

Nam primò Cantabrigiam

Convitiis execravit,

Quod vocitat Lutetiam,

Et luto conspurcavit.

Sed parce, precor, parcito,

Nam istud nihil moror,

Quum hujus academiæ

Oxonia sit soror.

Tunc oppidanos miseros

Horrendo cornu petit,

De quibus dixit, nescio quid,

Et rythmum sic effecit.

Sed parce, precor, parcito,

Bardos Oxonienses

In canticis non vicimus

Jam Cantabrigienses.

Jam inspicit cratera

Quæ regi dono datur,

Et aurum ibi positum

Subripere conatur.

Sed parce, precor, parcito,

Nam scelus istud lues,

Si fraudes sodalitia,

Ad crucem cito rues.

Dein pro-cancellarium

Produxit equitantem,

In equum valde agilem

Huc et illuc saltantem:

Sed parce, precor, parcito,

Nam tibi vix credetur

Si non sub ejus cauda,

Urtica poneretur.

Tunc evomit sententiam

In ipsum oratorem

Qui dixit Jacobissimum,

Præter Latinum morem.

Sed parce, precor, parcito,

Orator exit talis

Qui magis pollet lingua

Quam ipse naso vales.

Adibat ad comœdiam

Et cuncta circumspexit,

Actorum diocesin

Completam hic detexit

Sed parce, precor, parcito,

Hæc cogitare mente

Non valet jurisdictio

Vicario absente.

Fictitio equo subdidit

Calcaria, sperans fore

Ut eum ire cogeret

Gradu submissiore:

Sed parce, precor, parcito,

Hoc non efficietur

Si iste stabularius

Habenis moderetur.

Testis est Polonia,

Quam sæpe is transivit,

Et oneratus sarcina

Eodem gradu ivit.

Tam parce, precor, parcito,

Et credas hoc futurum,

Si Brutum regat Asinus

Gradatim non iturum.

Comœdiam Ignoramus

Eum spectare libet,

Et hujus delicatulo

Structura non arridet.

At parce, precor, parcito,

Tum aliter versatus

In faciendis canticis

Fuisti occupatus.

Tum pergit maledicere

Cicestriensi patri,

Et vestes etiam vellicat

Episcopi barbati.

Sed parce, precor, parcito,

Et nos tu sales pone,

Ne tanti patris careas

Benedictione.

Tum cibo se ingurgitans

Abunde saginatur,

Et venter cum expletus est,

Danti convitiatur.

Sed parce, precor, parcito,

Nam illud verum erit,

Quicquid ingrato infecerit

Oxoniensi, perit.

At ecce nos videmur

Tenaces nimis esse,

Gallinam unam quod spectasset

Duos comedisse.

O parce, precor, parcito,

Hæc culpa corrigetur

Cum rursus Cantabrigia

Episcopo regetur.

Sed novo in sacello

Pedissequos aspexit,

Quos nostra Academia

Honoribus erexit.

Sed parce, precor, parcito,

Nam ipse es expertus,

Effugiunt omnes protinus

Cum carcer est apertus.

At nobis minitatur,

Si rex sit rediturus,

Tunc iste (Phœbo duce) est

Tela resumpturus.

Sed parce, precor, parcito,

Piscator ictus sapit,

Fugatus namque miles iners

Arma nunquam capit.

Et Cantabrigiam non

Lædi hinc speramus,

Ex ore tam spurcidico

Nil damni expectamus.

O parce, ergo, parcito,

Oxonia nunquam dicit,

Cum Martio princeps abiens

In Maio nos revisit.