The SQUABBLE.
11
LOBBIN CLOUT. Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen butter’s dear,[1]Of Irish swains potatoe is the chear,Oats for their feasts the Scottish shepherds grind, 85Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind.While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise,Nor leeks nor oatmeal nor potatoe prize.
CUDDY.In good roast beef my landlord sticks his knife,The capon fat delights his dainty wife, 90Pudding our parson eats, the squire loves hare,But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare.While she loves white-pot, capon ne’er shall be,Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.
LOBBIN CLOUT. As once I play’d at blindmand’s-buff, it hapt 95About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt:I miss'd the Swains, and seiz’d on Blouzelind;True speaks that ancient proverb, Love is blind.
CUDDY. As at hot-cockles once I laid me down,And felt the weighty hand of many a clown, 100Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and IQuick rose, and read soft mischief in her eye.
LOBBIN CLOUT. On two near elms the slacken’d cord I hung,Now high, now low my Blouzelinda swung.With the rude wind her rumpled garment rose, 105And show’d her taper leg and scarlet hose.
- ↑ Line 83. Populus Alcidæ gratissima, vitis Iaccho,
Formosæ Myrtus Veneri, sua Laurea Phœbo.
Phillis amat Corylos, Illas dum Phillis amabit,
Nec Myrtus vincit Corylos nec Laurea Phœbi, &c.
Virg.
CUDDY.
