Here no man spake ought to the point, But all they said was out of joint; Just like the chappel ominous I’ the colledge called _God with us_: Which truly[53] doth stand much awry, Just north and south, _yes verily_.
Philosophers did well their parts, Which prov’d them masters of their arts; Their moderator was no fool, He far from _Cambridge_ kept a school: The country did such store afford, The proctors might not speak a word.
But to conclude, the king was pleas’d, And of the court the town was eas’d: Yet _Oxford_ though (dear sister) hark yet, The king is gone but to _New-market_, And comes again e’re it be long, Then you may make another song.
The king being gone from _Trinity_, They make a scramble for degree; Masters of all sorts, and all ages, Keepers, subcizers, lackeyes, pages, Who all did throng to come aboard, With _Pray make me_ now, _Good my lord_.
They prest his lordship wondrous hard, His lordship then did want the guard; So did they throng him for the nonce, Until he blest them all at once, And cryed, _Hodiissimè_: _Omnes Magistri estote_.
Nor is this all which we do sing, For of your praise the world must ring: Reader, unto your tackling look, For there is coming forth a book Will spoyl _Joseph Barnesius_ The sale of _Rex Platonicus_.
AN ANSWER TO THE FORMER SONG, IN LATIN AND ENGLISH, BY ⸺ LAKES.
(From an Autograph in the Editor’s possession.)
A ballad late was made, But God knowes who ’es the penner, Some say the rhyming sculler, And others say ’twas Fenner[54]: But they that know the style Doe smell it by the collar, And do maintaine it was the braine Of some yong Oxford scholler.
And first he rails on Cambridge, And thinkes her to disgrace, By calling her _Lutetia_, And throws dirt in her face: But leave it, scholler, leave it, For all the world must grant, If Oxford be thy mother, Then Cambridge is thy aunt.
Then goes he to the town, And puts it all in starch, For other rhyme he could not find To fit the seventh of March: But leave it, scholler, leave it, For I must vail the bonnet, And cast the caps at Cambridge For making song and sonnet.
Thence goes he to their present, And there he doth purloyne, For looking in their plate He nimmes away their coyne: But leave it, scholler, leave it, For ’tis a dangerous thing To steal from corporations The presents of a king.