The BEGGARS Delight;
as it was SUNG at the
THEATRE-ROYAL:
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COurtiers, Courtiers, think it no harm,
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that silly poor swains in love should be,
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For love lies hid in raggs all torn,
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as well as in Gold and bravery:
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For the beggar he loves his Lass as dear,
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as he that hath thousands, thousands, thousands,
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He that has thousand pounds a year.
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State and Title are pittiful things,
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a lower state more happy doth prove,
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Lords and Ladies and Princes and Kings,
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with the beggar hath equal joys in love,
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And my pretty brown Cloris upon the Hay,
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hath always as killing, killing, killing,
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Hath always as killing charms as they.
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A Lord will purchase a Maiden-head,
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which perhaps hath been lost some years before,
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[A] Beggar will pawn his Cloak and his trade,
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[? to love] and live poor:
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Our eager imbraces in Cool-shades,
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are always as pleasing, pleasing, pleasing,
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Then theirs that are dull in downy Beds.
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Our Cloris is free from patches and paint,
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complection and features sweetly agree,
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Perfections which Ladies often do want,
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is always intail'd on her pedegree:
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Sweet Cloris in her own careless hair,
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is always more taking, taking, taking,
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Then Ladies that Towers and Pendents do wear.
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A Dutches may fail created for sport,
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by using of art, and changing of things,
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Tho' she was the Idol and Goddess o'th Court,
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the joys & the pleasure of Don. Prince, or Kings
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Yet Cloris in her old Russet Gown,
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she's sound, she's sound, she's sound,
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And free from the Plague and Pox of the Town.
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A Beggar as boon and brisk in the dark,
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as she that is painted red and white,
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And pleases her mate, though not such [?]
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as lies by the side of a Lord or a Knight,
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And Cloris hath beauty to content,
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so long as she's wholsome, wholsome, wholsome;
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She pleases as we don't repent.
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What though all the day she's attir'd in rags,
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yet once a week she changes her smock,
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And she that hath Gold or Siver in Bags,
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she can do no more that match a good Cock:
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She;s willing and ready to shew her art,
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and still with her kisses, kisses, kisses,
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She'l conquer the sences and the heart.
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All the night long we do hugg and imbrace,
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the greatest and rich can do no more,
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And when to the swain she joyns her face,
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he thinketh what joys there's for him in store:
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By the tast of the blisses so happy's he,
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he cry's there's no beggar, beggar, beggar,
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Could so blest or so fortunate be.
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The touch of her hand encreases his flame,
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who conquer'd by charms a captive doth lye
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And when he but thinks of his true loves name,
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he vows for her sake he freely would dye,
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Then she revives him again with a kiss.
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he cries you undoe me, undoe me, undoe me,
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Had ever poor soul such pleasure as this?
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Then gallants ne'r envy the poors delight,
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'tis pleasure to love, and a plague to be free,
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Tho some for our poverty do us slight,
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there's none alive more happy then we;
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We will are content with what we enjoy,
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& once in a twelve month, twelve month, twelve month
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We are blest with a Girl or a Boy.
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Content is a thing we strive to possess,
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and better it is then a Golden Mine,
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Since us with the same the Heavens do bless,
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what cause have we for to repine:
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No, we've enough our hearts to suffice,
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and he that doth murmer, murmer, murmer,
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Will never be happy nor wise.
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FINIS.
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