CONTENT AND RICH;
Or, the Glass of Vain Glory.
Being a SONG of the TIMES.
SHEWING
The Vanity of the World,
The Uncertainty of Riches,
The painfulness of Pleasure,
The advantage of a Private Life,
And the Crown of Contentment.
To the Tune of, State and Ambition.
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PRomotion's a Trifle, a vanishing Vapour,
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there's nothing that's permanent under the Sun,
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Our days they consume, and end like a Taper,
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that begins to Extinguish, as soon as begun:
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[Va]in Glory and Riches, are both shaddows Flying,
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[a]nd neither deserving our Labour, nor while,
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[M]ans life (at the best) from his birth's but a dying,
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I'le never believe it, though sometimes it smile.
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[Tu]rn o're and read backward the sad revolutions,
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[t]he Tempests, and turnings of Church and of State,
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[?]ush here to tell ye the Kingdoms pollutions,
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[a]nd how Charles was murthered at his own gate;
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A Spark of Division, blows up with contention,
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that flam'd with Sedition, and burn'd to good Cause,
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Did turn to Rebellion, and (under pretention)
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did quench out Religion, and smoak out the Laws.
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Nor City, nor Country, are ever well pleased,
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they'r still a Complaining, with nothing to say,
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They grudge at their burthens, and long to be eased,
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and still a new Strafford doth stand in the way:
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The Royal Delights are but like a Bubble,
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we nothing possess that is sure till the morrow:
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A Sword and a Scepter are Tooles but of trouble,
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a Crown of Gold is but the Cape-stone of sorrow;
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The Nation's a Tennice-Court, rich men do revell
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in all wordly pleasures, poor men are the Balls.
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High spirits their wits, and their sences do level,
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projecting their rising, and other mens falls;
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First Whig comes, and boldly drives all that's before him,
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but Tory (in ambush) he turneth the Chase,
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And maketh Great Coesar (in his wrath) to abhor him,
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then up flyes His Highness, and down falls His Grace.
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The King's Proclamation was Hui Apprehend them,
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the Nations sad union, and loss to prevent,
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The fate of Misfortune I'me sure did attend them,
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Tome, Russel, and Sidney were to their Graves sent:
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Monmouth did come to a matchless disaster,
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he lost the Kings favour, was turn'd out of place,
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The Head-piece of England, the witty Forecaster,
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the great Burgo-Master he dy'd with disgrace.
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Then pride and promotion look back, and but tell me,
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where reigneth the Glory of Great Alexander,
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The Monarch of Terrours, and age will compell ye,
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the fort of your Flesh in a Storm to surrender:
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Then Princes, and States-men, let nothing deceive ye,
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your airy exploits, and intentions lay by,
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And let not contrivance of your rest here bereave ye,
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Since God hath appointed that all men must dye
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The Court's but a Contest, the State is divided,
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the Church run to Scismes, the City doth cry,
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The Country doth grumble, at things undecided,
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and no man can tell ye the great reason why:
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Then stay thy vain fancy, and be not concerned,
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in factions, though honours great Star should appear,
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'Till the b'ast be o're blown, and the Skie be discerned,
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commotions be felled, and the Heavens look clear.
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The frame of the World doth wear out of fashion,
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the Sun Moon, and Stars will all loose their light,
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And men will leave off to be subject to passion,
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when once they are come where the'rs day without night
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Then stay thy proud Spirit, both Time and Ambition,
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are apt in turnings, to run thee ashoar,
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Let private contentment here Crown thy condition,
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and thou shalt have Kingdoms, when time is no more.
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FINIS.
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