Names they own were never known Throughout their generation, Noblemen are kind to them, At least by approbation: Many dote on one gay Coat, But mark what there is stampt on ’t, A stone Horse wild, with toole defil’d, Two Goats, a Lyon rampant. Truth to say, Paint and Array, Makes them so highly prized. Yet not one well, of ten can tell, If ever they were baptized. And if not, then tis a blot Past cure of Spunge or Laver: And we may sans question say The Divel was their God-father. Now to leave them, he receive them, Whom they most confide in, Whom that is, aske _Tib_ or _Sis_, Or any whom next you ride in. If in sooth, she speaks the truth, She sayes excuse I pray you, The beast you ride, where I confide, Will in due time convey you. _A Lover disclosing his love to his ~Mistris~._ Let not sweet _St._ let not these eyes offend you, Nor yet the message, that these lines impart, The message my unfeined love doth send you, Love that your self hath planted in my heart. For being charm’d by the bewitching art Of those inveigling graces that attend you: Love’s holy fire kindled hath in part These never-dying flames, my breast doth send you. Now if my lines offend, let love be blam’d, And if my love displease, accuse my eyes, And if mine eyes sin, their sins cause only lyes On your bright eyes, that hath my heart inflam’d. Since eyes[,] love, lines erre, then by your direction, Excuse my eyes, my lines, and my affection. _The contented Prisoner his praise of ~Sack~._ How happy’s that Prisoner That conquers his fates, With silence, and ne’re On bad fortune complaines, But carelessely playes With his Keyes on the Grates, And makes a sweet consort With them and his chayns. He drowns care with Sack, When his thoughts are opprest, And makes his heart float, Like a Cork in his Breast. _The Chorus._ Then, Since we are all slaves, That Islanders be, And our Land’s a large prison, Inclos’d with the Sea: Wee’l drink up the Ocean, To set our selves free, For man is the World’s Epitome. Let Pirates weare Purple, Deep dy’d in the blood Of those they have slain, The scepter to sway. If our conscience be cleere, And our title be good, With the rags we have on us, We are richer then they. We drink down at night, What we beg or can borrow, And sleep without plotting For more the next morrow. Since we, &c. Let the Usurer watch Ore his bags and his house, To keep that from Robbers, He hath rackt from his debtors, Each midnight cries Theeves, At the noyse of a mouse, Then see that his Trunks Be fast bound in their Fetters. When once he’s grown rich enough For a State plot, Buff in an hower plunders What threescore years got. Since we, &c.