A Certain Poem, to the Tune of Bonny Nell

It is not yet a fortnight since
Lutetia entertain’d our prince,
And vented hath a studied toy
As long 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 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
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 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 on a nag,
Whose coat was blue, 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 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:
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:
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.

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 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 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 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 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.