Glen Collection of printed music > Printed music > Wit and mirth, or, Pills to purge melancholy > Volume 3

I38 Songs Compleat,
A SONG.
To the Ttme of the Blacksmith, Pag. 20.
T'LL sing you a Sonnet that ne'er was in Print,
"lis truly and newly come out of the Mint,
I'll tell you beforehand you'll find nothing in't.
On nothing I think, and on nothing I write,
'Tis nothing I court, yet nothing I slight,
Nor care I a Pin if I get nothing by't.
Fire, Air, 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.
'Tis nothing sometimes that makes many things hit,
As when Fools amongst wise Men do silently sit,
A Fool that says nothing may pass for a Wit.
What one Man loves is another Man's loathing,
This blade loves a quick thing, that loves a new thing,
And both do in the Conclusion love nothing.
Your Lad that makes Love to a delica te smooth thing,
And thinking with Sighs to gain her and soothing,
Frequently makes such ado about nothing.
At last when his Patience and Purse is decay'd,
He may to the Bed of a Whore be betray'd,
But she that hath nothing must needs be a Maid.
Your slashing, and clashing, and flashing of Wit,
Doth start out of nothing but Fancy and Fit,
'Tis little or nothing to what hath been writ.
When first by the Ears we together did fall,
Then something got nothing, and nothing got all ;
From nothing it came, and to nothing it shall.
That Party that seal'd to a Cov'nant in haste,
Tho' made our three Kingdoms & Churches lie waste,
Their Project and all came to nothing at last.
They