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 compleat Tune, well known by Musicians, and many others: Or, Game at Cards
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HOw now good fellow, what all amort?
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I pray thee tell me what is the News,
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Trading is dead, and I am sorry fort,
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which makes me look worse than I use,
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If a man hath no imployment whereby to get a penny,
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he hath no enjoyment if that he wanteth money,
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And Charity is not used by any.
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I have nothing to spend, nor I've nothing to lend,
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i've 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 into a sleep like an idle drone:
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And as I slept, I fell into a dream,
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I seen Play-acted without e're a Theam,
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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 I did understand;
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The Stage was the World wherein we live,
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the Actors they were all mankind.
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And when the Play's ended, the Stage down they fling,
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then 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 Sithe in his hand,
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With the Globe of the World upon his breast,
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to shew that he could the same command:
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There's a time for to work, & 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 takes his place,
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and very gallantly plays his part;
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He fears not to flie in a Rulers face,
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although it cuts him to the heart:
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He tells him that all this is the latter Age,
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Which put the Actors into such a rage,
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That they kick'd 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 mocks and jears;
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pointing their fingers as they can:
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How came this fellow into our company?
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away with him many a Gallant did cry,
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For Plain-Dealing will a Beggar dye.
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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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They entertain'd 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 fare the best.
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Then cometh in poor Charity,
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methinks she looked wondrous old
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She quiver'd and she quak'd most piteously,
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it griev'd me to think she was grown so cold:
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She had been i'th' City, and in the Country,
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Amongst the Lawyers and Nobiity,
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But there was no room for poor Charity.
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Then comes in Truth, not cloathed in Wool,
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but like unto Youth in his white Laun sleeves,
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And says the Land it is full, full, full,
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too full of Rebels, worse than Thieves.
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The City's full of Poverty, the French are full of pride,
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Phanaticks full of Envy, which order can't abide,
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And the Usurers bags are full beside.
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Hark how Bellonas Drums they do beat,
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methinks they go rattling through the Town
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Hark how they thunder through the street,
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as though they would shake the Chimneys 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 wak'd I sat in my Chair.
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