Part 50

This is the way to trample without trembling, ’Tis the sycophant’s only secure. Covenants and oaths are badges of dissembling, ’Tis the politick pulls down the pure. To profess and betray, to plunder and pray, Is the only ready way to be great; Flattery doth the feat; Ne’er go, ne’er stir, sir—will venture further Than the greatest dons in the town, From a coffer to a crown.

I’m in a temperate humour now to think well, Now I’m in another humour for to drink well, Then fill us up a beer-bowl, boys, that we May drink it, drink it merrily; No knavish spy shall understand, For, if it should be known, ’Tis ten to one we shall be trepanned.

I’ll drink to them a brace of quarts, Whose anagram is call’d true hearts; If all were well, as I would ha’t, And Britain cured of its tumour, I should very well like my fate, And drink my sack at a cheaper rate, Without any noise or rumour, Oh then I should fix my humour.

But since ’tis no such matter, change your hue, I may cog and flatter, so may you; Religion is a widgeon, and reason is treason, And he that hath a loyal heart may bid the world adieu.

We must be like the Scottish man, Who, with intent to beat down schism, Brought in the Presbyterian With canon and with catechism. If beuk wont do’t, then Jockey shoot, For the Church of Scotland doth command; And what hath been since they came in I think we have cause to understand.

THE SOLDIER’S DELIGHT.

(Made in the late times.)

From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society, and edited by J. O. Halliwell.

FAIR Phydelia, tempt no more, I may not now thy beauty so adore, Nor offer to thy shrine; I serve one more divine And greater far than you: Hark! the trumpet calls away, We must go, lest the foe Get the field and win the day; Then march bravely on, Charge them in the van, Our cause God’s is, though the odds is Ten times ten to one.

Tempt no more, I may not yield, Although thine eyes a kingdom may surprise; Leave off thy wanton tales, The high-born Prince of Wales Is mounted in the field, Where the loyal gentry flock, Though forlorn, nobly born, Of a ne’er-decaying stock; Cavaliers, be bold, ne’er let go your hold, Those that loiters are by traitors Dearly bought and sold.

Phydelia.—One kiss more, and so farewell. Soldier.—Fie, no more! I prithee fool give o’er; Why cloud’st thou thus thy beams? I see by these extremes, A woman’s heaven or hell. Pray the King may have his own, That the Queen may be seen With her babes on England’s throne; Rally up your men, one shall vanquish ten, Victory, we come to try our valour once again.

THE LOYAL SOLDIER.

From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society, and edited by J. O. Halliwell.

WHEN in the field of Mars we lie, Amongst those martial wights, Who, never daunted, are to dye For King and countrie’s rights; As on Belona’s god I wait, And her attendant be, Yet, being absent from my mate, I live in misery.

When lofty winds aloud do blow, It snoweth, hail, or rain, And Charon in his boat doth row, Yet stedfast I’ll remain; And for my shelter in some barn creep, Or under some hedge lye; Whilst such as do now strong castles keep Knows no such misery.

When down in straw we tumbling lye, With Morpheus’ charms asleep, My heavy, sad, and mournful eye In security so deep; Then do I dream within my arms With thee I sleeping lye, Then do I dread or fear no harms, Nor feel no misery.

When all my joys are thus compleat, The canons loud do play, The drums alarum straight do beat, Trumpet sounds, horse, away! Awake I then, and nought can find But death attending me, And all my joys are vanisht quite,— This is my misery.

When hunger oftentimes I feel, And water cold do drink, Yet from my colours I’le not steal, Nor from my King will shrink; No traytor base shall make me yield, But for the cause I’le be: This is my love, pray Heaven to shield, And farewell misery.

Then to our arms we straight do fly, And forthwith march away; Few towns or cities we come nigh Good liquor us deny; In Lethe deep our woes we steep— Our loves forgotten be, Amongst the jovialst we sing, Hang up all misery.

Propitious fate, then be more kind, Grim death, lend me thy dart, O sun and moon, and eke the wind, Great Jove, take thou our part; That of these Roundheads and these wars An end that we may see, And thy great name we’ll all applaud, And hang all misery.

THE POLITITIAN.

Upon an act of Treason made by the Rebels, etc.

From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society, and edited by J. O. Halliwell.

BUT since it was lately enacted high treason For a man to speak truth ’gainst the head of a state, Let every wise man make a use of his reason To think what he will, but take heed what he prate; For the proverb doth learn us, He that stays from the battel sleeps in a whole skin, And our words are our own if we keep them within, What fools are we then that to prattle do begin Of things that do not concern us!

’Tis no matter to me whoe’er gets the battle, The rubs or the crosses, ’tis all one to me; It neither increaseth my goods nor my cattle; A beggar’s a beggar, and so he shall be Unless he turn traitor. Let misers take courses to hoard up their treasure, Whose bounds have no limits, whose minds have no measure, Let me be but quiet and take a little pleasure, A little contents my own nature.

But what if the kingdom returns to the prime ones? My mind is a kingdom, and so it shall be; I’ll make it appear, if I had but the time once, He’s as happy in one as they are in three, If he might but enjoy it. He that’s mounted aloft is a mark for the fate, And an envy to every pragmatical pate, Whilst he that is low is safe in his estate, And the great ones do scorn to annoy him.

I count him no wit that is gifted in rayling And flurting at those that above him do sit; Whilst they do outwit him with whipping and jailing, His purse and his person must pay for his wit. But ’tis better to be drinking; If sack were reform’d to twelve-pence a quart I’d study for money to merchandise for’t, With a friend that is willing in mirth we would sport; Not a word, but we’d pay it with thinking.

My petition shall be that Canary be cheaper, Without either custom or cursed excise; That the wits may have freedom to drink deeper and deeper, And not be undone whilst our noses we baptize; But we’ll liquor them and drench them. If this were but granted, who would not desire To dub himself one of Apollo’s own quire? And then we will drink whilst our noses are on fire, And the quart pots shall be buckets to quench them.