I’ll drink to them a brace of quarts, Whose anagram is call’d true hearts; If all were well, as I would ha’t, And Britain cured of its tumour, I should very well like my fate, And drink my sack at a cheaper rate, Without any noise or rumour, Oh then I should fix my humour. But since ’tis no such matter, change your hue, I may cog and flatter, so may you; Religion is a widgeon, and reason is treason, And he that hath a loyal heart may bid the world adieu. We must be like the Scottish man, Who, with intent to beat down schism, Brought in the Presbyterian With canon and with catechism. If beuk wont do’t, then Jockey shoot, For the Church of Scotland doth command; And what hath been since they came in I think we have cause to understand. THE SOLDIER’S DELIGHT. (Made in the late times.) From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society, and edited by J. O. Halliwell. FAIR Phydelia, tempt no more, I may not now thy beauty so adore, Nor offer to thy shrine; I serve one more divine And greater far than you: Hark! the trumpet calls away, We must go, lest the foe Get the field and win the day; Then march bravely on, Charge them in the van, Our cause God’s is, though the odds is Ten times ten to one. Tempt no more, I may not yield, Although thine eyes a kingdom may surprise; Leave off thy wanton tales, The high-born Prince of Wales Is mounted in the field, Where the loyal gentry flock, Though forlorn, nobly born, Of a ne’er-decaying stock; Cavaliers, be bold, ne’er let go your hold, Those that loiters are by traitors Dearly bought and sold. _Phydelia_.—One kiss more, and so farewell. _Soldier_.—Fie, no more! I prithee fool give o’er; Why cloud’st thou thus thy beams? I see by these extremes, A woman’s heaven or hell. Pray the King may have his own, That the Queen may be seen With her babes on England’s throne; Rally up your men, one shall vanquish ten, Victory, we come to try our valour once again. THE LOYAL SOLDIER. From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society, and edited by J. O. Halliwell. WHEN in the field of Mars we lie, Amongst those martial wights, Who, never daunted, are to dye For King and countrie’s rights; As on Belona’s god I wait, And her attendant be, Yet, being absent from my mate, I live in misery. When lofty winds aloud do blow, It snoweth, hail, or rain, And Charon in his boat doth row, Yet stedfast I’ll remain; And for my shelter in some barn creep, Or under some hedge lye; Whilst such as do now strong castles keep Knows no such misery.