







 
   
     
       
         A dialogue betwixt Tom and Dick the former a country-man, the other a citizen. Presented to his Excellency and the Council of State, at Drapers-Hall in London, March 28. 1660. (To the tune of I'le never love thee more.)
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A87358 of text R211745 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Thomason 669.f.24[49]). Textual 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 
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         EarlyPrint Project
         Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO
         2017
         A87358
         Wing J1026
         Wing D1359
         Thomason 669.f.24[49]
         ESTC R211745
         99870450
         99870450
         163780
         
           
            This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of
             Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal
            . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
          
        
      
       
         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A87358)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 163780)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Thomason Tracts ; 247:669f24[49])
      
       
         
           
             A dialogue betwixt Tom and Dick the former a country-man, the other a citizen. Presented to his Excellency and the Council of State, at Drapers-Hall in London, March 28. 1660. (To the tune of I'le never love thee more.)
             Jordan, Thomas, 1612?-1685?, attributed name.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.)
           
             s.n.,
             [London :
             1660]
          
           
             Attributed to Thomas Jordan.
             Verse - "Now would I give my life to see".
             Imprint from Wing.
             Annotation on Thomason copy: "March 30 1660".
             Reproduction of the original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Political satire, English -- Early works to 1800.
           Political ballads and songs -- England -- 17th century.
           Great Britain -- History -- Commonwealth and Protectorate, 1649-1660 -- Humor -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
       A87358  R211745  (Thomason 669.f.24[49]).  civilwar no A dialogue betwixt Tom and Dick the former a country-man, the other a citizen. Presented to his Excellency and the Council of State, at Drap [Jordan, Thomas] 1660    1092 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 A This text  has no known defects that were recorded as gap elements at the time of transcription.  
        2007-09 TCP
        Assigned for keying and markup
      
        2007-09 Apex CoVantage
        Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images
      
        2007-10 Elspeth Healey
        Sampled and proofread
      
        2007-10 Elspeth Healey
        Text and markup reviewed and edited
      
        2008-02 pfs
        Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
      
    
  
   
     
       
       
         
           A
           DIALOGUE
           Betwixt
           TOM
           AND
           DICK
           The
           former
           a
           
             COVNTRY-MAN
             ,
          
           The
           other
           a
           
             CITIZEN
             ,
          
           Presented
           to
           his
           EXCELLENCY
           and
           the
           COUNCIL
           of
           STATE
           ,
           at
           DRAPERS-Hall
           in
           
             LONDON
             ,
             March
          
           28.
           1660.
           
        
         
           (
           To
           the
           Tune
           of
           
             I
             'le
             never
             love
             thee
             more
             .
          
           )
        
         
           
             Tom.
             
          
           
             NOW
             would
             I
             give
             my
             life
             to
             see
             ,
          
           
             This
             wondrous
             Man
             of
             might
             .
          
           
             
               Dick
               .
            
             Dost
             see
             that
             
               Jolly
               Lad
               ?
            
             That
             's
             he
             ;
          
           
             I
             'le
             warrant
             him
             he
             's
             
               right
               .
            
          
           
             There
             's
             a
             
               true
               Trojan
            
             in
             his
             
               Face
               :
            
          
           
             Observe
             him
             o're
             and
             o're
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dick
             .
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               Come
               Tom
               ;
               If
               ever
               GEORGE
               be
               base
               ,
            
             
               Ne're
               trust
               good-fellow
               more
               .
            
          
           
             
               He
               's
               none
               of
               that
            
             Phantastique
             Brood
             ,
          
           
             
               That
            
             murther
             ,
             
               while
               they
            
             pray
             :
          
           
             
               That
            
             trusse
             ,
             
               and
            
             cheat
             
               us
               ,
            
             for
             our
             good
             ;
          
           
             (
             All
             ,
             in
             a
             Godly
             way
             ,
             )
          
           
             
               He
            
             drinkes
             
               no
            
             Bloud
             ,
             
               and
            
             they
             
               no
            
             Sack
          
           
             
               into
               their
            
             gutts
             
               will
            
             poure
             .
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               But
               if
               GEORGE
               does
               not
               do
               the
               knack
               .
            
             
               Ne're
               trust
               good-fellow
               more
               .
            
          
           
             
               His
               quiet
            
             Conscience
             
               needs
               no
            
             guard
             ;
          
           
             
               He
               's
            
             brave
             ,
             
               but
               full
               of
            
             pitty
             .
          
        
         
           
             Tom.
             
          
           
             
               Yet
               ,
               by
               your
               leave
               ,
               he
            
             knock'd
             so
             hard
             ,
          
           
             H'adlike
             t'
             awak'd
             the
             City
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dick
             .
          
           
             Foole
             ,
             
               'T
               was
               the
            
             Rump
             
               that
               let
               a
            
             Fart
             ,
          
           
             
               The
            
             Chaynes
             
               and
            
             Gates
             
               it
            
             tore
             .
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               But
               if
               GEORGE
               beares
               not
               a
               true
               heart
               ,
            
             
               Ne're
               trust
               Good-fellow
               more
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Tom.
             
          
           
             Your
             
               City-blades
            
             are
             
               cunning
               Rookes
               ;
            
          
           
             How
             rarely
             you
             
               collogue
            
             him
             ?
          
           
             But
             when
             your
             
               Gates
            
             flew
             off
             the
             
               Hookes
               ,
            
          
           
             You
             did
             as
             much
             
               be-rogue
            
             him
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dick
             .
          
           
             
               Pug'h
               .
               —
               'T
               was
               the
            
             Rump
             
               did
               onely
            
             Feele
             ,
          
           
             
               The
            
             blowes
             
               the
            
             City
             bore
             .
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               But
               if
               GEORGE
               be'nt
               as
               true
               as
               Steele
               ,
            
             
               Ne're
               trust
               Good-fellow
               more
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Dick
             .
          
           
             Come
             ,
             by
             this
             Hand
             ,
             
               we
               'll
               crack
               a
               quare
               ,
            
          
           
             
             Thou'll
             
               pledge
               his
               health
               ,
            
             I
             trow
             .
          
        
         
           
             Tom.
             
          
           
             
               Tope
               boy
               ,
            
             Dick
             —
             A
             
               lusty
               dish
               my
               heart
               ,
            
          
           
             
               Away
               w'ot
               ;
            
             Tom.
             —
             
               Let
               it
               go
               .
            
          
           
             Drench
             me
             you
             slave
             in
             a
             
               full
               Bowle
               ,
            
          
           
             I
             'll
             take
             't
             ,
             an'
             t
             were
             a
             
               score
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Dick
             .
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               if
               GEORGE
               be'nt
               a
               hearty
               Soule
               ,
            
             
               Ne're
               trust
               Good-fellow
               more
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Tom.
             
          
           
             But
             heark
             you
             ,
             Sirrah
             ,
             we
             're
             to
             
               loud
               ,
            
          
           
             He
             'll
             
               hang
            
             us
             ,
             by
             ,
             and
             by
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dick
             .
          
           
             Me'thinks
             ,
             he
             should
             be
             vengeance
             
               proud
               ?
            
          
           
             No
             more
             then
             
               thee
               ,
            
             or
             
               I.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             Tom.
             
          
           
             Why
             then
             I
             'le
             give
             him
             the
             best
             
               Blade
               ,
            
          
           
             That
             ere
             the
             
               Bilbo
            
             wore
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Dick
             .
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               If
               GEORGE
               prove
               not
               a
               Bonny
               Lad
               ,
            
             
               Ne're
               trust
               Good-fellow
               more
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Tom.
             
          
           
             'T
             was
             well
             he
             
               came
               ,
               we
               'd
               mawll'd
               the
               Tayle
               ;
            
          
           
             —
             We
             've
             all
             
               throwne
            
             up
             our
             
               Farmes
               .
            
          
           
             And
             from
             the
             
               Musket
               ,
            
             to
             the
             
               Flayle
               ,
            
          
           
             Put
             all
             our
             men
             in
             
               Armes
               .
            
          
           
             The
             
               Girles
            
             had
             ta'ne
             the
             
               Members
            
             down
             ,
          
           
             Ne're
             saw
             such
             things
             before
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dick
             .
          
           
             If
             GEORGE
             speak
             not
             the
             Town
             our
             owne
             ,
          
           
             Ne're
             trust
             Good-fellow
             more
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dick
             .
          
           
             But
             prethee
             ,
             are
             the
             Folke
             so
             
               mad
               ?
            
          
        
         
           
             Tom.
             
          
           
             —
             So
             mad
             ,
             say'st
             ;
             —
             The
             're
             
               undone
               ,
            
          
           
             There
             's
             not
             a
             
               penny
            
             to
             be
             had
             ;
          
           
             And
             ev'ry
             Mothers
             Sonne
          
           
             Must
             fight
             ,
             if
             he
             intend
             to
             
               eate
               ,
            
          
           
             Grow
             
               valliant
               ,
            
             now
             he
             is
             
               poore
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Dick
             .
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               Come
               —
               yet
               if
               GEORGE
               don't
               do
               the
               feate
               ,
            
             
               Ne're
               trust
               Good-fellow
               more
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Tom.
             
          
           
             —
             Why
             
               Richard
               ,
            
             't
             is
             a
             
               Devilish
               thing
               ,
            
          
           
             We
             're
             not
             left
             worth
             a
             groate
             .
          
           
             My
             
               Doll
               ,
            
             has
             
               sold
            
             her
             
               wedding-ring
               ,
            
          
           
             And
             
               Su
            
             has
             
               pawnd
            
             her
             
               Coate
               .
            
          
           
             The
             
               Sniv'ling
               Rogues
            
             abus'd
             our
             
               Squire
               ,
            
          
           
             And
             call'd
             our
             
               Mistresse
               Whore
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Dick
             .
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               
                 Yet
                 —
              
               If
               GEORGE
               don't
               what
               we
               desire
               ,
            
             
               Ne're
               trust
               Good-fellow
               more
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Tom
             :
          
           
             —
             
               By
               this
               good
               day
               ;
               I
               did
               but
            
             speak
             ;
          
           
             They
             took
             my
             Py-ball'd
             Mare
             ;
          
           
             And
             put
             the
             Carri'on
             Wench
             to
             th'
             squeak
             :
          
           
             
               (
               Things
               go
               against
               the
               Hair
               )
               .
            
          
           
             
               Our
            
             Prick-ear'd
             Cor'nell
             
               looks
               as
            
             bigg
          
           
             Still
             ,
             
               as
               he
               did
            
             before
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ric.
             
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               And
               yet
               if
               GEORGE
               don't
               humme
               his
               Gigg
               ,
            
             
               Ne're
               trust
               Good-fellow
               more
               .
            
          
           
             
               'Faith
               ,
            
             Tom
             :
             our
             Case
             
               is
               much
               at
               one
               ;
            
          
           
             
               We
               're
            
             broke
             
               for
               want
               of
            
             Trade
             ;
          
           
             
               Our
            
             City
             's
             baffled
             ,
             
               and
            
             undone
             ,
          
           
             
               Betwixt
               the
            
             Rump
             ,
             
               and
            
             Blade
             .
          
           
             
               We
               've
               emptied
               both
               our
            
             Veines
             
               and
            
             Baggs
             ,
          
           
             
               Upon
               a
            
             Factious
             Score
             .
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               If
               GEORGE
               Compassion
               not
               our
               Raggs
               ,
            
             
               Ne're
               trust
               Good-fellow
               more
            
          
        
         
           
             Tom.
             
          
           
             But
             what
             doest
             think
             should
             be
             the
             
               Cause
               ,
            
          
           
             Whence
             all
             these
             Mischiefs
             spring
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ric.
             
          
           
             Our
             damned
             breach
             of
             Oaths
             and
             Lawes
             ;
          
           
             Our
             Murther
             of
             the
             King
             .
          
           
             
               We
               have
               bin
            
             Slaves
             
               since
            
             CHARLES
             
               his
            
             Reign
             ,
          
           
             
               We
               liv'd
               like
            
             Lords
             
               before
               .
            
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               If
               GEORGE
               don't
               set
               all
               right
               again
               ,
            
             
               Ne're
               trust
               Good-fellow
               more
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Tom.
             
          
           
             Our
             
               Vicar
               —
               (
               And
               hee
               's
               one
               that
               knows
               )
            
          
           
             Told
             me
             once
             ,
             —
             I
             know
             what
             :
             —
          
           
             (
             And
             yet
             the
             Thief
             is
             woundy
             
               Close
               )
            
          
        
         
           
             Ric.
             
          
           
             
               'T
               is
               all
               the
            
             better
             ;
             
               —
               That
               .
            
          
           
             
               
               H'as
               too
               much
            
             Honesty
             
               and
            
             Witt
             ,
          
           
             
               To
               let
               his
            
             Tongue
             runne
             o're
             :
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               If
               this
               prove
               not
               a
               lucky
               hitt
               ,
            
             
               Ne're
               trust
               Good-fellow
               more
               .
            
          
           
             
               Shall's
            
             ask
             
               him
               ,
               what
               he
            
             means
             
               to
            
             doe
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Tom.
             
          
           
             —
             '
             Good
             faith
             ,
             with
             all
             my
             heart
             ;
          
           
             
               Thou
            
             mak'st
             the
             
               better
               Leg
            
             o'
             th'
             Two
             :
          
           
             Take
             
               thou
            
             the
             
               better
               part
               .
            
          
           
             I
             'le
             
               follow
               ,
            
             if
             thou
             't
             leade
             the
             
               Van
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Ric.
             
          
           
             
               Content
               ;
            
             —
             I
             'll
             march
             before
             .
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               If
               GEORGE
               prove
               not
               a
               Gallant
               man
               ,
            
             
               Ne're
               trust
               Good-fellow
               more
               .
            
          
           
             
               My
               Lord
               :
               —
               in
            
             us
             
               the
            
             Nation
             craves
          
           
             
               But
               what
               you
               're
            
             bound
             
               to
            
             do
             .
          
        
         
           
             Tom.
             
          
           
             
               —
               We
               have
            
             liv'd
             Drudges
             :
          
        
         
           
             Ric.
             
          
           
             
               —
               And
            
             We
             Slaves
             ;
          
        
         
           
             Both
             .
          
           
             
               We
               would
               not
            
             die
             
               so
            
             too
             .
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               Restore
               us
               but
               our
               Lawes
               agen
               ;
            
             
               Th'
               unborn
               shall
               thee
               adore
               :
            
             
               If
               GEORGE
               denies
               us
               his
               Amen
               ;
            
             
               Ne're
               trust
               Good-fellow
               more
               .
            
          
        
      
    
    

