Though once they the rabble bewitch’d with their cant,
Whilst cobler and weaver set up for a saint;
Yet now the stale cheat they can fasten no more,
The juggle’s discover’d and they must give o’er;
Yet give them their due that such mischief did work,
Who revile Christian princes and pray for the Turk.
Oh! give them their due, and let none of ’em want
A cup of Geneva or Turkish turbant,
That, clad in their colours, they may not deceive
The vulgar, too prone and too apt to believe
The fears they suggest on a groundless pretence,
On purpose to make ’em repine or their prince.
THE TROUPER.
From the Loyal Garland. A pleasant song revived.
Come, come, let us drink,
’Tis vain to think
Like fools of grief or sadness;
Let our money fly
And our sorrows dye,
All worldly care is madness;
But wine and good cheer
Will, in spite of our fear,
Inspire us all with gladness.
Let the greedy clowns,
That do live like hounds,
They know neither bound nor measure,
Lament every loss,
For their wealth is their cross,
Whose delight is in their treasure;
Whilst we with our own
Do go merrily on,
And spend it at our leisure.
Then trout about the bowl
To every loyal soul,
And to his hand commend it.
A fig for chink,
’Twas made to buy drink,
Before we depart we’ll end it.
When we’ve spent our store,
The nation yields no more,
And merrily we will spend it.
ON THE TIMES,
OR
THE GOOD SUBJECT’S WISH.
From the Loyal Garland.
To the tune of “Young Phaon.”
Good days we see, let us rejoice,
In peace and loyalty,
And still despise the factious noise
Of those that vainly try
To undermine our happiness,
That they may by it get;
Knavery has great increase
When honesty does set.