The BEGGERS Delight,
As it was SUNG at the
THEATRE-ROYAL.
To a pleasant New Tune:
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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 Silks and Bravery:
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For the Beggar he loves his Lass as dear,
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as he that has 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, Princes and Kings,
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with the Beggar hath equal joys in Love;
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And my pritty 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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content with Love, to lye and live poor:
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Ou eager imbraces in Coal-Sheds,
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are always more pleasing, pleasing, pleasing,
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Then theirs that are dull in Downy beds.
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Our loris is free from Patches and Paint,
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complexion and Features sweetly agree,
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Perfections which Ladies often do want,
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is always intail'd on our 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 were the Idol and Goddess o'th Court,
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the joys and 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 Begger's 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, tho' not such a spark,
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as lies by the side of a Lord or Knight:
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And Cloris hath beauty to content,
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so long as she's wholsome, wholesome, wholsome,
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She pleases us we don't repent.
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What tho' 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 has Gold and Silver in Bags,
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she can do no more than match a good Cock:
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She's willing and ready to show 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 hug 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 increases 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 could freely 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're envy the poors delight,
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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 well are content with what we enjoy,
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& once in a twelvemonth, twelvemonth, twelvemonth,
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We are blest with a Girl, or a boy.
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Content is the 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 murmur, murmur, murmur,
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Will never be happy, nor wise.
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