The Cavaliers Complaint.
To the Tune of, I'le tell thee
Dick. Etc.
|
COme Jack, let's drinke a pot of Ale,
|
And I shall tell thee such a Tale,
|
Will make thine eares to ring:
|
My Coyne is spent, my time is lost,
|
And I this only fruit can boast,
|
That once I saw my King.
|
But this doth most afflict my mind;
|
I went to Court in hope to find,
|
Some of my friends in place:
|
And walking there I had a sight,
|
Of all the Crew, but by this light
|
I hardly knew one face.
|
S'life of so many Noble Sparkes,
|
Who on their Bodies beare the markes
|
Of their Integrity:
|
And suffred ruine of Estate,
|
It was my base unhappy Fate,
|
That I not one could see.
|
Not one upon my life among,
|
My old acquaintance all along,
|
At Truro and before:
|
And I suppose the place can shew,
|
As few of those whom thou didst know,
|
At Yorke or Marston Moore.
|
But truly there are swarmes of those,
|
Whose Chins are beardlesse, yet their Hose
|
And backsides still weare Muffes:
|
Whil'st the old rusty Cavaliers,
|
Retires or dares not once appeare,
|
For want of Coyne and Cuffes.
|
When none of those I could descry,
|
Who better farre deserv'd then I,
|
I calmely did reflect:
|
Old Servants by rule of State,
|
Like Almanacks grow out of date,
|
What then can I expect?
|
Troth in contempt of Fortunes frowne,
|
I'le get me fairely out of Towne,
|
And in a Cloyster pray:
|
That since the Starres are yet unkind
|
To Royalists, the King may find,
|
More faithfull Friends then they.
|
|
|
|
|
An Echo to the Cavaliers
Complaint.
|
I Marvaile Dick that having beene,
|
So long abroad, and having seene
|
The World as thou hast done:
|
Thou shouldst acquaint me with a Tale,
|
As old as Nestor, and as stale,
|
As that of Priest and Nunne.
|
Are we to learne what is a Court?
|
A Pageant made for Fortunes sport,
|
Where merits scarce appeare:
|
For bashfull merits only dwels
|
In Camps, in Villages, and Cels,
|
Alas it comes not there.
|
Desert is nice in it's addresse,
|
And merit oft times doth oppresse,
|
Beyond what guilt would doe:
|
But they are sure of their Demands,
|
That come to Court with Golden hands,
|
And brazen faces too.
|
The King indeed doth still professe,
|
To give his Party soone Redresse,
|
And cherish Honesty:
|
But his good wishes prove in vaine,
|
Whose service with his Servants gaine,
|
Not always doth agree.
|
All Princes be they ne're so wise,
|
Are faine to see with other eyes,
|
But seldome heare at all:
|
And Courtiers find their Interest,
|
In time to feather well their Nest,
|
Providing for their Fall.
|
Our comfort doth on time depend,
|
Things when they are at worst; will mend,
|
And let us but reflect
|
On our condition 'tother day,
|
When none but Tyrants bore the sway,
|
What did we then expect?
|
Meanewhile a calme retreat is best,
|
But discontent if not supprest,
|
Will breed Disloyalty:
|
This is the constant note I'le sing,
|
I have been faithfull to the King,
|
And so shall live and dye.
|
|
|
|
|