Madagascar; with Other Poems/To I. C. Rob'd by his Man Andrew

by William Davenant

To I. C.

Rob'd by his Man

Andrew.

Sir, whom I now love more, than did the good
Saint Martin, that all-naked-Flesh-and-blood,
Whose Cloake (at Plimmouth spun) was Crab-Tree wood.

His owne was Tammie sure; which made it teare
So soone into a gift; and thou (I feare)
Wilt beg halfe mine, not to bestow, but weare.

For thy Saint-Andrew sought not out the way
To keepe thee warme, but make thee watch, and pray
That is, for his returne; about, Doomes-day;

Worse left, than blushing Adam, who withdrew
The nakednesse he fear'd, more than he knew,
Not to a Mercers, but where Fig-leaves grew:

Which sew'd with strings of slender Weeds, cloath Men
Cheaper than Silks, that must be paid for, when
It pleases the chiefe Scribe, 'oth Chamberlen.

Though my sick Joints, cannot accompany
Thy Hue-on-cry; though Midnight parlies be
Silenc'd long since, 'tween Constables, and me;

Without their helpes, or Suburb-Justices,
(Upon whose justice now an impost lies,
For with the price of Beefe, their Warrants rise)

I'le finde this Andrew strait. See, where the pale
Wretch stands: Thy guiltlesse Robes (ne're hang'd for sale;)
He executes, on Sundry Brokers Nayle.

In stead of him (chas'd thence by his wise feare)
Does the Mothers joy, a bold Youth appeare;
Who swaggers up to Forty Markes a yeare!

Sometimes he troubles Law, at th'Inns of Court;
Now comes, to buy him Weeds of shining sort;
And faine would have thy Cloake, but'tis too short:

Too short (neat Sir) was all thy rifled store;
Which made those Brokers curse thy stature more,
Than thou, Fiend-Andrew, the sad day before.

But hark! who knocks? good troth my Muse is staid,
By an Apothecaries Bill unpaid;
Whose length, not strange-nam'd-Drugs, makes her afraid.