A Copy of Verses UPON TWO COCKS FIGHTING.

Go you tame Gallants, you that have a Name, And would accounted be Cocks of the Game; That have brave Spurrs to shew for’t, and can Crow, And count all Dunghill breed, that cannot show Such painted Plumes as yours; which think’t no vice. With Cock-like-Lust to tread your Cockatrice. Tho’ Peacocks, Woodcocks, Weathercocks you be. If y’are not Fighting-Cocks y’ are not for me. I of two Feather’d Compatants will Write; And he that means to th’ Life to express their Fight, Must make his Ink the Blood which they did spill, And from their dying Wings must take his Quill. No sooner were the doubtful People set, The Match made up, and all that would had bet; But strait the skilful Judges of the Play Brought forth their sharp heel’d Warriors; and they Were both in Linnen Baggs, as if ’twere meet Before they Dy’d, to have their Winding sheet. Into the Pit they’re brought, and being there Upon the Stage, the Norfolk Canticleer Looks stoutly at his ne’er before seen Foe, And like a Challenger began to Crow, And clap his Wings, as if he would display His Warlike Colours which were Black and Grey. Mean time the wary Wisbich walks and breaths His active Body, and in Fury Wreaths His comely Crest, and often looking down, He whets his angry Beak upon the Ground. This done they meet, not like that Coward Breed Of Æsop’s; these can better Fight than Feed; They scorn the Dunghill, ’tis their only Prize, To dig for Pearls within each other’s Eyes. They Fought so nimbly that ’twas hard to know, To th’ Skilful, whether they did Fight or no; If that the Blood which dy’d the fatal Floor, Had not born Witness of’t. Yet Fought they more: As if each Wound were but a Spur to Prick Their Fury forward, Lightnings not more quick, Or red, than were their Eyes: ’Twas hard to know Whether ’twas Blood or Anger made them so. I’m sure they had been out, had they not stood More safe, by being fenced in with Blood. Thus they vy’d blows; but yet (Alas!) at length, Altho’ their Courage were full try’d, their Strength, And Blood began to Ebb. You that have seen A Watry Combat on the Sea between Two angry-roaring-boyling Billows, how They march, and meet, and dash their curled Brow; Swelling like Graves, as tho’ they did intend T’intomb each other e’er the Quarrel end; But when the Wind is down, blustring Weather, They are made Friends, and sweetly run together; May think these Champions such; their Blood grows low And they which leapt before, now scarce can go: Their Wings which lately at each blow they clapt, (As if they did applaud themselves) now flapt; And having lost th’ advantage of the Heel, Drunk with each others Blood, they only reel; From either Eyes such drops of Blood did fall, As if they wept them for their Funeral. And yet they fain would Fight; they came so near, Methought they meant into each other’s Ear To whisper Wounds; and when they could not rise, They lay and lookt Blows int’ each others Eyes, But now the Tragic Part! after this fit, When Norfolk Cock had got the best of it, And Wisbich lay a Dying, so that none, Tho’ sober but might venture Seven to One; Contracting, like a dying, Taper all His strength, intending with the Blow to fall: He struggles up, and having taken Wind, Ventures a Blow, and strikes the other blind. And now poor Norfolk having lost his Eyes, Fights only guided by Antapathies: With him (Alas!) the Proverb holds not true; The blows his Eyes ne’er saw his Heart must rue. At length by chance he stumbled on his foe, Not having any power to strike a blow, He falls upon him with his wounded Head, And makes his Conqueror’s wings his Feather-bed: Where lying sick his Friends were very Charie Of him, and fetcht in hast Apothecary; But all in vain his Body did so blister, That ’twas uncapable of any Clister; Wherefore at length opening his fainting Bill He call’d a Scriv’ner and thus made his Will. Inprimis, Let it never be forgot, My Body freely I bequeath to th’ Pot, Decently to be boil’d, and for its Tomb Let it be buried in some hungry Womb. Item. Executors I will have none, But he that on my side laid Seven to One: And like a Gentleman that he may live, To him and to his Heirs my Comb I give, Together with my Brains, that all may know, That oftentimes his Brains did use to crow. Item. It is my will to th’ weaker Ones Whose Wives complain of them, I give my Stones; To him that’s dull I do my Spurs impart; And to the Coward I bequeath my Heart: To Ladies that are Light it is my will, My Feathers should be given; and for my Bill I’d giv’t a Taylor but it is so short, That I’m afraid he’ll rather curse me for’t: And for the Apothecaries fee who meant To give me a Clister, let my Rump be sent. Lastly, because I feel my Life decay, I yield and give to Wisbich Cock the day.