Troth! in contempt of Fortune’s frown,
I’ll get me fairly out of town,
And in a cloyster pray;
That since the starres are yet unkind
To Royalists, the King may find
More faithfull friends than they.
AN ECHO TO THE CAVALIER’S COMPLAINT.
I marvel, Dick, that having been
So long abroad, and having seen
The world as thou hast done,
Thou should’st acquaint mee with a tale
As old as Nestor, and as stale
As that of Priest and Nunne. [100]
Are we to learn what is a Court?
A pageant made for fortune’s sport,
Where merits scarce appear;
For bashfull merit only dwells
In camps, in villages, and cells;
Alas! it dwells not there.
Desert is nice in its addresse,
And merit ofttimes doth oppresse
Beyond what guilt would do;
But they are sure of their demands
That come to Court with golden hands,
And brazen faces, too.
The King, they say, doth still professe
To give his party some redresse,
And cherish honestie;
But his good wishes prove in vain,
Whose service with his servants’ gain
Not alwayes doth agree.
All princes (be they ne’er so wise)
Are fain to see with others’ eyes,
But seldom hear at all;
And courtiers find their interest
In time to feather well their nest,
Providing for their fall.
Our comfort doth on time depend,
Things when they are at worst will mend;
And let us but reflect
On our condition th’ other day,
When none but tyrants bore the sway,
What did we then expect?
Meanwhile a calm retreat is best,
But discontent (if not supprest)
Will breed disloyaltie;
This is the constant note I sing,
I have been faithful to the King,
And so shall ever be.
London, printed for Robert Crofts, at the Crown, in Chancery Lane, 1661.