Love and Honesty:
OR,
The Modish Courtier.
Whats here to do? a pretty Modish song
Turnd to a Ballad? in troth I think ere long,
A fourth part of the Town will Poets be,
If that a line of Wit they can but see:
They must be medling and add further still,
And never leave till all thats sence they kill:
Yet if I Judge aright, the vulgar sort
Are mightily beholding to them fort.
To a pleasant new Tune, called, The Duke of Monmouths Jigg.
With Allowance, Ro. LEstrange. Feb. 8. 1676.
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A Curse on the zealous and ignorant crew,
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Who languish all day,
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And with passion obey,
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The senceless decrees that Platonicks pursue.
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How poor and unhappy;
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Unhappy are those pretenders,
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Who fearful of scandal and vulgarly shame,
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Diminish their flame.
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But blest be the man who with freedom enjoys,
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A Beauty whose Eyes,
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Like the Stars in the Sky,
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Procures new delight till his appetite cloyes.
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How happy unhappy,
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How happy are those pretenders,
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Who fearless of scandal or vulgar reproach,
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Pursue their debauch.
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Eliziums a grief and a torment, compard
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To those that can prove,
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The enjoyment of Love,
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[Where] Lovers in raptures do meet a reward.
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The tales of the antients,
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Of Elizian fields are ungrounded,
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In Loves kind fruition where souls have access,
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Oh theres the true bliss.
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Those conquering beauties more pleasure afford,
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To such as are free,
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At their own liberty,
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Then Usurers Chests which with plenty are stord.
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Then happy be still,
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Noble Lads that are natures adorers,
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Whilst envy and avarice starve and repine,
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Wel frolique in Wine.
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Those that the confinement of Wedlock refuse,
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May live at their ease,
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And enjoy when they please,
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Being free from the strict matrimonial noose.
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The bawling of brats,
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Shall not injure his rest nor his quiet,
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But when with delights his fierce appetites cloyd,
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Then rest is enjoyd.
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No wonder why clowns who of sence are debard,
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Remain till they dye,
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Like a Hog in a Stye,
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And ner understand a brisk Lovers reward.
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Tis those that have souls,
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Of the modish new stamp that are witty,
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All others are drudges and never are blest,
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Till death gives them rest.
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Tis Love that does give us true sence of our life,
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And makes us proceeed,
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In each generous deed,
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Protected with love, or are freed from all strife.
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But those that ner knew,
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The delights of an amorous Lover,
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Cant truly be said to have livd out an hour,
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If freed from Loves power.
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Those that for abundance do match with a wife,
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Are troubled with an itch,
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To be wealthy and rich,
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Which keeps them in torment all days of their life.
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They never enjoy,
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But still grumble at every misfortune,
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Whilst wisdom creates in a generous mind,
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Joys they cannot find.
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God Cupid for ever thy name Ile adore,
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For now I can see,
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That in thy Deity,
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Are blessings (for those that deserve them) in store.
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A passion thats noble,
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Shall ever receive satisfaction,
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But ignorant fools who abandon thy name,
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Extinguish their flame.
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In liberty all men have cause to rejoyce,
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If mingled with Love,
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Ever happy twill prove,
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What fops do count folly, we think our best choice.
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A cup of the creature,
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Will make our bloods warmer and warmer,
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Like senceless Fanaticks wel never repine,
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Of Love and good Wine.
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