Shall we still Suffer ill And be dumb, And let every varlet undo us? Shall we doubt Of each lout That doth come, With a voice Like the noise Of a drum, And a sword or a buff-coat, to us? Shall we lose our estates By plunder and rates, To bedeck those proud upstarts that swagger? Rather fight for your meat Which those locusts do eat, Now every man’s a beggar. THE ROYALIST. By Alex. Brome. Written 1646. COME pass about the bowl to me, A health to our distressed King; Though we’re in hold let cups go free, Birds in a cage may freely sing. The ground does tipple healths afar When storms do fall, and shall not we? A sorrow dares not show its face When we are ships, and sack’s the sea. Pox on this grief, hang wealth, let’s sing; Shall’s kill ourselves for fear of death? We’ll live by th’ air which songs do bring, Our sighing does but waste our breath. Then let us not be discontent, Nor drink a glass the less of wine; In vain they’ll think their plagues are spent When once they see we don’t repine. We do not suffer here alone, Though we are beggar’d, so’s the King; ’Tis sin t’ have wealth when he has none, Tush! poverty’s a royal thing! When we are larded well with drink, Our head shall turn as round as theirs, Our feet shall rise, our bodies sink Clean down the wind like Cavaliers. Fill this unnatural quart with sack, Nature all vacuums doth decline; Ourselves will be a zodiac, And every mouth shall be a sign. Methinks the travels of the glass Are circular, like Plato’s year; Where everything is as it was Let’s tipple round: and so ’tis here. THE NEW COURTIER. By Alex. Brome. 1648. SINCE it must be so Then so let it go, Let the giddy-brain’d times turn round; Since we have no king let the goblet be crown’d, Our monarchy thus will recover: While the pottles are weeping We’ll drench our sad souls In big-bellied bowls; Our sorrows in sack shall lie steeping, And we’ll drink till our eyes do run over; And prove it by reason That it can be no treason To drink and to sing A mournival of healths to our new-crown’d King.