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A Maidenhead of twenty-five years old,
But surely it was painted, like a whore,
And for a sign, or wonder, hanged at door,
Which shows a Maidenhead, that's kept so long,
May he hanged up, and yet sustain no wrong.
There did my loving friendly host begin
To entertain me freely to his inn :

And there my friends, and good associates,
Each one to mirth himself accommodates.
At Well-head both for welcome, and for cheer,
Having a good New ton, of good stale beer:
There did we Trundle down health, after health,
(Which oftentimes impairs both health and wealth.)
Till everyone had filled his mortal trunk,
And only No-body* was three parts drunk.

The morrow next, Wednesday Saint Swithin's day,
From ancient Islington I took my way.

At Holywell I was enforced carouse,

Ale high, and mighty, at the Blindman's House.
But there's a help to make amends for all,

That though the ale be great, the pots be small.
At Highgate Hill to a strange house I went,
And saw the people were to eating bent,

In either borrowed, craved, asked, begged, or bought, But most laborious with my teeth I wrought.

I did not this, 'cause meat or drink was scant,

But I did practise thus before my want;

Like to a Tilter that would win the prize,

*TRUNDLE.-i.e., John Trundle of the sign of No-body (see note page 5).

Before the day he'll often exercise.
So I began to put in use, at first

These principles 'gainst hunger, 'gainst thirst.
Close to the Gate,' there dwelt a worthy man,
That well could take his whiff, and quaff his can,
Right Robin Good-fellow, but humours evil,
Do call him Robin Pluto, or the devil.
But finding him a devil, freely hearted,
With friendly farewells I took leave and parted,
And as alongst I did my journey take,

I drank at Broom's well, for pure fashion's sake,
Two miles I travelled then without a bait,

The Saracen's Head at Whetstone entering straight,
I found an host, that might lead an host of men,
Exceeding fat, yet named Lean, and Fen.2

And though we make small reckoning of him here,
He's known to be a very great man there.
There I took leave of all my company,

Bade all farewell, yet spake to No-body.

Good reader think not strange, what I compile,
For No-body was with me all this while.
And No-body did drink, and, wink, and scink,
And on occasion freely spent his chink.

If anyone desire to know the man,

Walk, stumble, Trundle, but in Barbican.

"It is reasonable to conjecture that at this date the custom of "Swearingin at Highgate was not in vogue-or, No-body would have taken the oath.

"NAMED LEAN AND FEN.-Some jest is intended here on the Host's name.-Qy., Lean en, or, the anagram of A. FENNEL.

There's as good beer and ale as ever twang'd,
And in that street kind No-body1 is hanged.
But leaving him unto his matchless fame,
I to St. Albans in the evening came,
Where Master Taylor, at the Saracen's Head,
Unasked (unpaid for) me both lodged and fed.

In one

"NO-BODY was the singular sign of John Trundle, a balladprinter in Barbican in the seventeenth century [and who seems to have accompanied our author as far as Whetstone on his "Penniless Pilgrimage”—and, certainly up to this point a very "wet" one!] of Ben Jonson's plays Nobody is introduced, "attyred in a payre of Breeches, which were made to come up to his neck, with his armes out at his pockets and cap drowning his face." This comedy was "printed for John Trundle and are to be sold at his shop in Barbican at the sygne of No-Body." A unique ballad, preserved in the Miller Collection at Britwell House, entitled "The Well-spoken No-body," is accompanied by a woodcut representing a ragged barefooted fool on pattens, with a torn money-bag under his arm, walking through a chaos of broken pots, pans bellows, candlesticks, tongs, tools, windows, &c. Above him is a scroll in black-letter:

"Nobody.is.my. Name. that. Beyreth. Every. Bodyes.

Blame."

The ballad commences as follows:-

Many speke of Robin Hoode that never shott in his bowe,
So many have layed faultes to me, which I did never knowe;
But nowe, beholde, here I am,

Whom all the worlde doeth diffame;
Long have they also scorned me,

And locked my mouthe for speking free.
As many a Godly man they have so served
Which unto them God's truth hath shewed ;
Of such they have burned and hanged some.
That uuto their ydolatrye wold not come :
The Ladye Truthe they have locked in cage,
Saying of her Nobodye had knowledge.
For as much nowe as they name Nobodye
I thinke verilye they speke of me :
Whereffore to answere I nowe beginne-
The locke of my mouthe is opened with ginne,

Wrought by no man, but by God's grace,
Unto whom he prayse in every place," &c.

Larwood and Hotten's History of Signboards.

The tapsters, hostlers, chamberlains, and all,

Saved me a labour, that I need not call,

The jugs were filled and filled, the cups went round,
And in a word great kindness there I found,

For which both to my cousin, and his men,
I'll still be thankful in word, deed, and pen.
Till Thursday morning there I made my stay,
And then I went plain Dunstable highway.
My very heart with drought methought did shrink,
I went twelve miles, and no one bade me drink.
Which made me call to mind, that instant time,
That drunkenness was a most sinful crime.
When Puddle-hill I footed down, and past
A mile from thence, I found a hedge at last.
There stroke we sail, our bacon, cheese, and bread,
We drew like fiddlers, and like farmers fed.

And whilst two hours we there did take our ease,
My nag made shift to mump green pulse' and peas.
Thus we our hungry stomachs did supply,
And drank the water of a brook hard by.
Away toward Hockley in the Hole, we make,
When straight a horseman did me overtake,
Who knew me, and would fain have given me coin,

I said, my bonds did me from coin enjoin,

I thanked and prayed him to put up his chink,
And willingly I wished it drowned in drink.
Away rode he, but like an honest man,
I found at Hockley standing at the Swan,

'PULSE. All sorts of leguminous seeds.

A formal tapster, with a jug and glass,

Who did arrest me: I most willing was
To try the action, and straight put in bail,
My fees were paid before, with sixpence ale,
To quit this kindness, I most willing am,
The man that paid for all, his name is Dam,
At the Green Dragon, against Grays-Inn gate,
He lives in good repute, and honest state.
I forward went in this my roving race,
To Stony Stratford I toward night did pace,
My mind was fixed through the town to pass,
To find some lodging in the hay or grass,
But at the Queen's Arms, from the window there,
A comfortable voice I chanced to hear,

Call Taylor, Taylor, and be hanged come hither,
I looked for small entreaty and went thither,
There were some friends, which I was glad to see,
Who knew my journey; lodged, and boarded me.
On Friday morn, as I would take my way,
My friendly host entreated me to stay,
Because it rained, he told me I should have
Meat, drink, and horse-meat and not pay or crave.
I thanked him, and for his love remain his debtor,
But if I live, I will requite him better.
(From Stony Stratford) the way hard with stones,
Did founder me, and vex me to the bones.
In blustering weather, both for wind and rain,
Through Towcester I trotted with much pain,

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