round;Since we have no king let the goblet be crown’d,
Our monarchy thus will recover:
While the pottles are weeping
We’ll drench our sad souls
In big-bellied bowls;
Our sorrows in sack shall lie steeping,
And we’ll drink till our eyes do run over;
And prove it by reason
That it can be no treason
To drink and to sing
A mournival of healths to our new-crown’d King.
Let us all stand bare;—
In the presence we are,
Let our noses like bonfires shine;
Instead of the conduits, let the pottles run wine,
To perfect this new coronation;
And we that are loyal
In drink shall be peers,
While that face that wears
Pure claret, looks like the blood-royal,
And outstares the bones of the nation:
In sign of obedience,
Our oath of allegiance
Beer-glasses shall be,
And he that tipples ten is of the nobility.
But if in this reign
The halberted train
Or the constable should rebel,
And should make their turbill’d militia to swell,
And against the King’s party raise arms;
Then the drawers, like yeomen
Of the guards, with quart pots
Shall fuddle the sots,
While we make ’em both cuckolds and freemen;
And on their wives beat up alarums.
Thus as each health passes
We’ll triple the glasses,
And hold it no sin
To be loyal and drink in defence of our King.
UPON THE CAVALIERS DEPARTING OUT OF LONDON.
By Alex. Brome.
Now fare thee well, London,
Thou next must be undone,
’Cause thou hast undone us before;
This cause and this tyrant
Had never play’d this high rant
Were’t not for thy argent d’or.
Now we must desert thee,
With the lines that begirt thee,
And the red-coated saints domineer;
Who with liberty fool thee,
While a monster doth rule thee,
And thou feel’st what before thou didst fear.
Now justice and freedom,
With the laws that did breed ’em,
Are sent to Jamaica for gold,
And those that upheld ’em
Have power but seldom,
For justice is barter’d and sold.
Now the Christian religion
Must seek a new region,
And the old saints give way to the new;
And we that are loyal
Vail to those that destroy all,
When the Christian gives place to the Jew.
But this is our glory,
In this wretched story
Calamities fall on the best;
And those that destroy us
Do better employ us,
To sing till they are supprest.
A MAD WORLD, MY MASTERS.
From the King’s pamphlets, British Museum.
We have a King, and yet no King,
For he hath lost his power;
For ’gainst his will his subjects are
Imprison’d in the Tower.
We had some laws (but now no laws)
By which he held his crown;
And we had estates and liberties,
But now they’re voted down.
We had religion, but of late
That’s beaten down with clubs;
Whilst that profaneness authorized
Is belched forth in tubs.
We were free subjects born, but now
We are by force made slaves,
By some whom we did count our friends,
But in the end proved knaves.
And now to such a grievous height
Are our misfortunes grown,
That our estates are took away
By tricks before ne’er known.
For there are agents sent abroad
Most humbly for
