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.
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.
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.