The Soldiers Fortune:
OR
The Taking of MARDIKE.
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WHen first Mardike was made a Prey,
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'Twas Courage that carry'd the Fort away;
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Then do not lose your Valors Prize,
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By gazing on your Mistress Eyes;
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But put off your Petticoat-Parley;
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Notting and sotting, & laughing and quaffing Canary,
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Will make a good Soldier miscarry,
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And never Travel for true Renown:
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Then turn to your Martial Mistriss,
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Fair Minerva the Soldiers Sister is;
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Rallying & sallying, with gashing & slashings of Wounds, Sir,
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With turning and burning of Towns, Sir,
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Is a high step to a great Mans Throne.
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Let bold Bellonas Brewer frown,
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And his Tun shall overflow the Town;
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And give the Cobler Sword and Fate,
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And a Tinker may trappan the State:
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Such fortunate Foes as these be,
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Turn'd the Crown to a Cross at Naseby:
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Father and Mother, and Sister & Brother confounded,
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And many a good Family wounded
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By a terrible turn of Fate.
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He that can kill a Man, thunder and plunder the town, sir,
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And pull his Enemies down, Sir,
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In time may be an Officer great.
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It is the Sword do's order all,
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Makes Peasants rise, and Princes fall;
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All Syllogisms in vain are spilt,
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No Logick like a Basket-Hilt;
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It handles 'em joynt by joynt Sir;
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Quilling & drilling, and spilling and killing profoundly,
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Untill the Disputers on Ground lye,
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And have never a word to say:
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Unless it be quarter, quarter, truth is confuted by a Carter,
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By stripping & nipping, & ripping and quipping Evasions,
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Doth Conquer a power of Perswasions,
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Aristotle hath lost the Day.
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The Musket bears so great a Force,
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To Learning it has no remorse;
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The Priest, the Lay-man, and the Lord,
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Find no distinction from the Sword;
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Tan-tarra, Tan-tarra, the Trumpet,
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Has blown away Babylons Strumpet:
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Now the Walls begin to crack,
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The Counsellors are struck dumb too,
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By the Parchment upon the Drum too;
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Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, an Alarum,
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Each Corporal now can outdare 'um,
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Learned Littleton goes to rack.
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Then since the Sword so bright doth shine,
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We'll leave our Wenches and our Wine,
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And follow Mars whereere he runs,
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And turn our Pots and Pipes to Guns:
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The Bottles shall be Granadoes,
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We'll bounce about the Bravadoes,
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By huffing and puffing, and snuffing and cuffing the French Boys,
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Whose Brows has been dy'd in a Trench Boys;
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Well got Fame is a Warrier's Wife,
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The Drawer shall be the Drummer,
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We'll be Collonels all next Summer;
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By hilting and tilting, and pointing and joynting like brave Boys,
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We shall have Gold, or a Grave Boys,
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And there's an end of a Soldiers Life.
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