Ben Jonson - The Masque of Christmas

Lyrics

Now God preserve, as you well doe deserve Your Majesties all, two there; Your Highnesse small, with my good Lords all And Ladies, how doe you do there? Gi'me leave to aske, for I bring you a Masque From little little little little London; Which say the King likes, I ha'passed the Pikes If not, old Christmas is undone Ovr Dances freight, is a matter of eight And two, the which are Wenches; In all they be ten, foure Cockes to a Hen And will swim to the time like Tenches Each hath his knight, for to carry his light Which some would say are Torches; To bring them here, and to lead them there And home againe to their owne porches Now their intent, is above to present With all the appurtenances A right Christmas, as of old it was To be gathered out of the Dances Which they doe bring, and afore the King The Queene, and Prince, as it were now Drawne here by Love; who, over and aboue Doth draw himselfe i'the geere too Hum drum, sauce for a Coney; No more of your Martiall musicke: Even for the sake, o'the next new stake For there I doe meane to use it And now to yee, who in place are to see With Roll and Farthingale hooped: I pray you know, though he want his bow By the wings, that this is Cupid He might goe backe, for to cry what you lack But that were not so wittie: His Cap, and Coat, are enough to note That he is the Love o'the Cittie And he leades on, though he now begon For that was onely his-rule: But now comes in, Tom of Bosomes Inne And he presenteth Mis-rule Which you may know, by the very show Albeit you never aske it: For there you may see what his Ensignes bee The Rope, the Cheese, and the Basket This Carol plaies, and has beene in his dayes A chirping boy, and a kill pot: Kit Cobler it is, I'me a Father of his And he dwells in the lane, cal'd Fil-pot But who is this? O'my daughter Sis Mince-pie, with her doe not dally On paine o'your life: She's an honest Cooks wife And comes out of Scalding-Alley Next in the trace, comes Gambol in place And to make my tale the shorter: My Sonne Hercules, tane, out of Distaffe-lane But an active man, and a Porter Now Post and Paire, old Christmasses heire Doth make, and a gingling Sally: And wott you who, t'is one of my two Sons, Cardmakers in Pur-alley Next in a trice, with his boxe and his Dice Mac-pippin my Son, but younger Brings Mumming in; and the knave will win For a'is a Costermonger But New-yeares-gift, of himselfe makes shift To tell you what his name is: With Orenge on head, and his Gingerbread Clem Waspe of Honey-lane 'tis This I you tell, is our jolly Wassell And for Twelfe-night more meet too: She workes by the Ell, and her name is Nell And she dwells in Thred-needle-street too Then Offering he, with his Dish, and his Tree That in every great house keepeth; Is by my Sonne, young Little-worth done And in Penny-rich-street he sleepeth Last, Baby-cake, that an end doth make Of Christmas merrie, merrie vaine a Is Child Rowlan, and a straight young man Though he come out of Crooked-lane 'a There should have beene, and a dozen I wene But I could finde but one more; Child of Christmas, and a L'ogge it was When I them all had gone ore I pray'd him, in a time so trim That he would make one to praunce it: And I my selfe, would have beene the twelfe O'hut Log was to heavie to dance it