An Answer to the Former Song, in Latin and English, by ⸺ Lakes

A ballad late was made,But God knowes who ’es the penner,Some say the rhyming sculler,And others say ’twas Fenner:But they that know the styleDoe smell it by the collar,And do maintaine it was the braineOf 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 findTo fit the seventh of March:But leave it, scholler, leave it,For I must vail the bonnet,And cast the caps at CambridgeFor making song and sonnet.

Thence goes he to their present,And there he doth purloyne,For looking in their plateHe nimmes away their coyne:But leave it, scholler, leave it,For ’tis a dangerous thingTo steal from corporationsThe presents of a king.

Next that, my lord vice-chancellorHe brings before the prince,And in the face of all the courtHe makes his horse to wince.But leave it, scholler, leave it,For sure that jest did faile,Unless you clapt a nettleUnder his horse’s taile.

Then aimes he at our orator,And at his speech he snarles,Because he forced a word, and calledThe prince “most Jacob-Charles.”But leave it, scholler, leave it,For he did it composeThat puts you down as much for tongueAs you do him for nose.

Then flies he to our comedies,And there he doth professeHe saw among our actorsA 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 museCould 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 trottHee’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 playConspires with Ignoramus.But leave it, scholler, leave it,And call ’t not “God knows what,”Your head was making balladsWhen 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 picadellBy law may weare a ruffe.

Next that he goes to dinner,And, like an hardy guest,When he had cramm’d his belly fullHe railes against the feast.But leave it, scholler, leave it;For, since you eat his roast,It argues want of mannersTo 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-chancellorYour table shall be better.

Then goes he to the Regent-house,And there he sits and seesHow lackeys and subsisers pressAnd scramble for degrees.But leave it, scholler, leave it,’Twas much against our mind,But when the prison doors are opeNoe 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 tellYour wit lies all in prose.

Nor can you make the worldOf Cambridge praise to singe,A mouth so foul no market eareWill stand to hear it sing.Then leave it, scholler, leave it,For yet you cannot say,The king did go from you in MarchAnd come again in May.