Poor ROBINs DREAM,
Commonly called
POOR CHARITY.
I know no Reason but this harmless RIDDLE,
May as well be Printed, as sung to a FIDDLE.
To a complete Tune, well known by Musicians, and many Others: Or, a Game at Cards.
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HOW now, good fellow, what all amort?
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I pray tell me what is the news?
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Trading is dead, and Im sorry fort,
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Which makes me to look worse than I use;
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If a man hath no employment whereby to get a penny,
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He hath no enjoyment if he wanteth Money,
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And Charity is not used by any.
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Ive nothing to spend, nor nothing to lend,
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I have nothing to do, I tarry at home;
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Sitting in my chair, drawing near to the Fire,
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I fell asleep like an idle drone;
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And as I slept I fell into a dream,
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I saw a play acted without eer a theme,
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But I could not tell what the play did mean.
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But afterwards I did perceive,
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And something more did understand,
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The Stage was the World wherein we live,
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And the actors were all Mankind.
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And when the play is ended the stage they down do fling
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When there will be no difference in this thing,
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Between a Beggar and a King.
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The First that acted I protest,
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Was Time with a glass and a scythe in his hand,
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With the globe of the world upon his breast,
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To shew how the same he could command.
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Theres a Time for to work, and a Time for to play,
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A Time for to borrow, and a Time for to pay,
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And a Time that doth call us all away.
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Conscience, in order first takes place,
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And very gallantly plays his part;
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He fears not to fly in a Rulers face,
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Altho it cuts him to the heart.
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He tells him that this is the latter age,
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Which puts the actors in such a rage,
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That they kickd poor Conscience off the stage
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Plain-Dealing presently appears,
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In habit like a simple Man.
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The actors at him mock and jeer,
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Pointing their fingers as they ran:
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How came this fellow in our company,
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Away with him many a Gallant did cry,
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For Plain-Dealing will a Beggar die.
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Dissimulation mounted the stage,
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But he was cloathed in gallant attire;
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He was acquainted with Youth and Age,
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Many his company did desire:
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Then they entertain him in their very breast,
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There he could have harbour and quietly rest;
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For Dissemblers and Turn-Coats fair the best.
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Then cometh in poor Charity,
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Methinks she looks wondrous old,
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She quiverd and she quakd most piteously,
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It grievd me to think she was grown so cold;
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She had been both in the city and country,
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Amongst the Lawyers and Nobility,
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But there was no room for Poor Charity.
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Then come in Truth not cloathed in wool,
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But like unto youth in his white lawn sleeves,
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And sad, The court is full, is full, is full,
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Too full of Rebels, worse than Thieves:
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The citys full of poverty, the French are full of pride,
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Fanaticks full of Envy, which Order cant abide,
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And Userers bags are full besides.
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Hark! how Bellonas drums do beat,
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Methinks they go rattling thro the town;
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Hark! how they thunder thro the street,
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As tho theyd shake the chimnies down:
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Then comes in Mars the great God of War,
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And bids us face about and be as we were:
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But when I awaked I sat in my chair.
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