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.
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.