Much a-do, about Nothing: OR, A Song made of Nothing, the newest in Print; He that seriously mindes it, will find All-things in't.
ILe sing you a
Sonnet, that nere was in Print,
'Tis truly and newly come out of the Mint,
But j'le tell you before hand, you'l find
Nothing in't.
On
Nothing I think, on
Nothing I Write,
For
Nothing I Covet, yet
Nothing I Slight,
And I care not a Pin, if I get
Nothing by't.
Fire, Aire, Earth and
Water, Beasts, Birds, Fish and
Men,
Did start out of
Nothing, a
Chaos, a
Den;
And all things shall turn into
Nothing agen.
It's
Nothing sometimes that makes many things hit,
As when a Fool amongst Wise men doth silently sit,
A Fool that sayes
Nothing, may pass for a Wit.
What one Man doth love, is another Man's loathing,
This
Blade loves a quick thing, & that loves a slow thing;
And both in the very Conclusion love
Nothing.
Your Slashing and Clashing, and Flashing of Wit,
Doth start out of
Nothing, but Fancy and Fit,
It's little or
Nothing to what hath been Writ.
When first we together by the Ears did fall,
Then
Something got
Nothing, and
Nothing got
All,
From
Nothing it came, unto
Nothing it shall.
That
Party which Sealed to a
Covenant in hast,
Who made
King and
Kingdom, and
Churches lye wast,
Their
Projects and all came to
Nothing at last,
They raised an Army of Horse and of Foot,
To tumble down
Monarchy, Branch and Root,
They Thunder'd & Plunder'd, but
Nothing would do't.
The
Organ and
Altar, and
Ministers Clothing,
In
Presbyter-Jack did beget such a lothing,
That he must needs set up a Petty-new-
Nothing.
And when he had Rob'd us in Sanctified Clothing,
And Perjur'd the People by Faithing and Trothing,
But at last was Catch'd, and all came to
Nothing.
Where
War and
Rebellion, and
Plundring grows,
The
Mendicant-man is freest from
Foes,
For he is most Happy, hath
Nothing to lose.
Brave
Caesar and
Pompey, and Great
Alexander,
Whom
Armies did follow, as
Goose follows
Gander,
Have
Nothing to say to an
Action of
Slander.
The wisest great
Prince, were he never so stout,
Could he Conquer the
World, and give
Mankind a Rout,
Did bring
Nothing in, nor shall bear
Nothing out.
Old
Noll that did rise up to high thing, from low-thing,
By Brewing
Rebellion, and Nicking and Frothing,
In Seven years distance, was
All things and
Nothing.
Dick (
Olivers Heir) that pittiful slow-thing,
Who once was Invested with Purple Clothing,
Now stands for a Cipher, and a Cipher is
Nothing.
If
King-killers are excluded from bliss,
Old
Bradshaw (that feels the Reward on't by this)
Had better been
Nothing, then what now he is.
Your Gallant that lives by fine Meat, Drink, & Clothing,
Who was th' other day, but a pittiful low-thing,
Payes
Butcher, and
Baker, and
Draper, with
Nothing.
The nimble tongu'd
Lawyer that Pleads for his Pay,
When
Death doth Arrest him, and carry him away,
At the
General Bar, will have
Nothing to say.
If any here tax me with weakness of Wit,
And say that of
Nothing, I
Nothing have Writ,
I shall Answer
Ex Nihilo, nihil fit.
Yet let his Discretion be never so tall,
This very word
Nothing, shall give it a fall,
For in Writing of
Nothing, I comprehend all.
Let every man give the
Poet his due,
'Cause then 'twas with him, as now it's with you,
He studied it, when he had
Nothing to do.
This very word
Nothing, if took the right way,
May prove advantagious, for what would you say.
If the
Vintner should tell you, there's
Nothing to Pay?
London, Printed for Tho. Vere at the sign of the Angell, without Newgate. 1664.