When down in straw we tumbling lye, With Morpheus’ charms asleep, My heavy, sad, and mournful eye In security so deep; Then do I dream within my arms With thee I sleeping lye, Then do I dread or fear no harms, Nor feel no misery. When all my joys are thus compleat, The canons loud do play, The drums alarum straight do beat, Trumpet sounds, horse, away! Awake I then, and nought can find But death attending me, And all my joys are vanisht quite,— This is my misery. When hunger oftentimes I feel, And water cold do drink, Yet from my colours I’le not steal, Nor from my King will shrink; No traytor base shall make me yield, But for the cause I’le be: This is my love, pray Heaven to shield, And farewell misery. Then to our arms we straight do fly, And forthwith march away; Few towns or cities we come nigh Good liquor us deny; In Lethe deep our woes we steep— Our loves forgotten be, Amongst the jovialst we sing, Hang up all misery. Propitious fate, then be more kind, Grim death, lend me thy dart, O sun and moon, and eke the wind, Great Jove, take thou our part; That of these Roundheads and these wars An end that we may see, And thy great name we’ll all applaud, And hang all misery. THE POLITITIAN. Upon an act of Treason made by the Rebels, etc. From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society, and edited by J. O. Halliwell. BUT since it was lately enacted high treason For a man to speak truth ’gainst the head of a state, Let every wise man make a use of his reason To think what he will, but take heed what he prate; For the proverb doth learn us, He that stays from the battel sleeps in a whole skin, And our words are our own if we keep them within, What fools are we then that to prattle do begin Of things that do not concern us! ’Tis no matter to me whoe’er gets the battle, The rubs or the crosses, ’tis all one to me; It neither increaseth my goods nor my cattle; A beggar’s a beggar, and so he shall be Unless he turn traitor. Let misers take courses to hoard up their treasure, Whose bounds have no limits, whose minds have no measure, Let me be but quiet and take a little pleasure, A little contents my own nature. But what if the kingdom returns to the prime ones? My mind is a kingdom, and so it shall be; I’ll make it appear, if I had but the time once, He’s as happy in one as they are in three, If he might but enjoy it. He that’s mounted aloft is a mark for the fate, And an envy to every pragmatical pate, Whilst he that is low is safe in his estate, And the great ones do scorn to annoy him.