A poor scholar's thred-bare suit: described in a petitionary poem to his patron. This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription B06897 of text S100420 in the English Short Title CatalogTextual changes and metadata enrichments aim at making the text more computationally tractable, easier to read, and suitable for network-based collaborative curation by amateur and professional end users from many walks of life. The text has been tokenized and linguistically annotated with MorphAdorner. The annotation includes standard spellings that support the display of a text in a standardized format that preserves archaic forms ('loveth', 'seekest'). Textual changes aim at restoring the text the author or stationer meant to publish. This text has not been fully proofread Approx. 6 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image. EarlyPrint Project Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO 2018 B06897 Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.2[76] 99886895 ocm99886895 181406 2248538616

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 2, no. B06897) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 181406) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books; Tract supplement ; A1:1[77]) A poor scholar's thred-bare suit: described in a petitionary poem to his patron. 1 sheet ([1] p.). Printed for William Whitwood at the Golden-Lyon in Duck-Lane, London, : 1668. Verse: "Wonder not why these lines come to your hand,". Reproduction of original in the British Library. eng eebo A poor scholar's thred-bare suit: described in a petitionary poem to his patron. anon 1668 1 816 1 0 0 0 0 0 12.25 C The rate of 12.25 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the C category of texts with between 10 and 35 defects per 10,000 words. 2008-10 Assigned for keying and markup 2008-12 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2009-12 Sampled and proofread 2009-12 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2010-04 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
A Poor Scholar's Thred-bare Suit : DESCRIBED IN A PETITIONARY POEM TO HIS PATRON . WOnder not why these Lines come to your hand , The Naked truth you soon shall understand , I have a Suit to you , that you would be So kind as send another Suit to me . The Spring appears , and now Beasts , Birds , and Bees , The fruitful fields , gay Gardens , and tall Trees Are cover'd ; All things that do creep or fly , Have gotten their Apparell on , but I ; Time hath impar'd my Breeches , they shew , Sir , Like the Scotch Flaggs that hung in VVestminster , Or Adam's leaves when Mereers shops did grow , By Fig-tree court in Pater-noster-row , Round about London all Hedges and Ditches , As they catch Wool , wear fragments of my Breeches , My patches dangle on my tatter'd Trowzes , Like Hen and Chickens , that hang up in houses ; And having crack'd out the contracting stitches , They look rather like Petticoats then Breeches ; So that my doublet pinn'd , makes me appear , Not like a Man , but a loose Wastcoatiere . The VVomen call'd me Woman , till the Fools Spy'd their mistake through my Pocket holes , My Wastband's wasted , and my Doublet looks Like him that wears it , quite off o' the hooks , My Eyes are out , and all my Button-moulds , Drop , like ripe Hazle Nuts , out of the hulls , The Suburbs of my Jacket being gone , I have scarce left a Skirt to sit upon ; My Doublet canvasse worn out quite behind , I put a Poem there , to keep out wind ; Two sly Slaves followed me , and One , or both , ( Like Boyes in Horn-books ) Read it through the Cloth : My Belly-peeces though , are fat , and will , If toasted , serve for Belly-peeces still . Last Shrovetide my Fore-skirt ( as i 'm a Sinner ) Fell in the Batter , and was fry'd for Dinner , But when the Wench saw how my Jaws did knock it , She would have made a Pancake of my Pocket : That Land is full of ignorance and ills , Where Scholars Teeth , prove their own Pap●● mills . That which I name a Shirt , looks like a Clout , Which some unhappy Gibbit had worn out , But ( as I am a true man and a Scholar ) This very Spring hath purg'd away my Collar ; My Weeds are Plough'd and Harrow'd , and I know , Unless I can get new , 't is time to Sow . About my neck , as you may understand , In litteral sense , is a right falling band . I wear a pair of Cuffs withall , and they , Look like those Cuffs which men get in a fray ; I had a Girdle too , when I was drest , But that is gone long since ; ungirt , unblest ; Instead of wearing Powdred-hair , my chief Invention is , how to get Powdred-beef ; , My Hatt's so full of holes , I can't devise A way how I should pluck it ore my Eyes ; My Shoes and I in one condition roul , And both appear as if we had no Soul ; My Stocking calves are best of all my stock , Sound as a Bell , but broken in the Clock . I am a Clock my self , which if fierce weather , Should separate , no art could set together , My Books are run away off from my Shelf , I cannot quote my Author nor my self , And ( like the old heroick Tale ) they be ; Jove knows , all in the Land of Lombardy . When thorough Birchin Lane I make my track , No Sales-man cryes to me What do you lack , He sees it well enough , oh wicked age That fill'st the Schools with Ruine , Raggs and Rage , I am patch'd just like Cottages with Thatch , The first Material is the smallest Patch ; Then pray Sir quickly send me some redress , E're my suit falls as a Cloud vanishes , For now it is ( by most mens approbation ) The next degree unto Annihilation . To summ up all , 't is a confused rude Ragg , that admits of no similitude , So thin , Imagination cannot strike it , And so like Nothing , that ther 's nothing like it . T.J. FINIS .

London , Printed for William Whitwood at the Golden-Lyon in Duck-Lane . 1668.