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"Dost thou think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and ale?" Shakspere.
|My friends,"--continued Mr. Bosky, after an approving smack of the lips, and "_Thanks_, my kind mistress! many happy returns of St. Bartlemy!" had testified the ballad-singer's hearty relish and gratitude for the refreshing draught over which he had just suspended his well-seasoned nose, *--"never may the mouths be stopped--
* "Thom: Brewer, my Mus: Servant, through his proneness to good fellowshippe, having attained to a very rich and rubicund nose, being reproved by a friend for his too frequent use of strong drinkes and sacke, as very pernicious to that distemper and inflammation in his nose. 'Nay, faith,' says he, 'if it will not endure sacke, it is _no nose_ for me.'"--L' Estrange, No. 578. Mr. Jenkins.
--(except with a cup of good liquor) of these musical itinerants, from whose doggrel a curious history of men and manners might be gleaned, to humour the anti-social disciples of those pious publicans who substituted their nasal twang for the solemn harmony of cathedral music; who altered St. Peter's phrase, 'the Bishop of your souls,' into 'the Elder (!!) of your souls;' for 'thy kingdom come,' brayed 'thy Commonwealth come!' and smuggled the water into their rum-puncheons, which they called _wrestling with the spirit_, and making the _enemy weaker!_ 'Show me the popular ballads of the time, and I will show you the temper and taste of the people.'
** "Robin Consciencean ancient ballad, (suggested by Lydgate's "London Lackpenny,") first printed at Edinburgh in 1683, gives a curious picture of London tradesmen, &c. Robin goes to Court, but receives cold welcome; thence to Westminster Hall. "It were no great matter," quoth the lawyers, "if Conscience quite were knock'd on the head." He visits Smithfield, and discovers how the "horse-cowrsers' artfully coerce their "lame jades" to "run and kick." Then Long Lane, where the brokers hold conscience to be "but nonsense." The butter-women of Newgate-market claw him, and the bakers brawl at him. At Pye Corner, a cook, glancing at him "as the Devil did look o'er Lincoln," threatens to spit him.