Anonymous British

Old Tom of Bedlam

Forth from my sad and darksome cell, Or from the deepe abysse of hell, Mad Tom is come into the world againe To see if he can cure his distempered braine. Feares and cares oppresse my soule; Harke, howe the angrye Fureys houle! Pluto laughes, and Prosperine is gladd To see poore naked Tom of Bedlam madd. Through the world I wander night and day To seeke my straggling senses; In angrye moode I mett old Time, With his pentarchye of tenses. When me he spyed, Away he hyed, For time will stay for no man; In vaine with cryes I rent the skyes, For pity is not common. Cold and comfortless I lye. Helpe, oh helpe! or else I dye. Harke! I heare Apollo's teame, The carman 'gins to whistle; Chast Diana bends her bowe, The boare begins to bristle. Come, Vulcan, with tools and with tackles, To knocke off my troublesome shackles! Bid Charles make ready his waine To fetch me my senses againe. Last night I heard the dog-star bark, Mars met Venus in the darke; Limping Vulcan het an iron barr, And furiouslye made at the god of war. Mars with his weapon laid about, But Vulcan's temples had the gout, For his broad horns did so hang in his light He could not see to aim his blowes aright: Mercurye, the nimble post of heaven, Stood still to see the quarrell; Gorrel-bellyed Bacchus, gyant-like, Bestryd a strong-beere barrell. To mee he dranke, I did him thanke, But I could get no cyder; He dranke whole butts Till he burst his gutts; But mine were ne'er the wyder. Poor naked Tom is very drye; A little drinke, for charitye! Harke! I hear Acteon's horne. The huntsmen whoop and hallowe; Ringwood, Royster, Bowman, Jowler, All the chase do followe. The man in the moone drinkes clarret, Eates powder'd beef, turnip and carret; But a cup of old Malaga sack Will fire the bushe at his backe.