AS Cupid roguishly one Day,
Had all alone stole out to play;
The Muses caught the little, little, little Knave,
And captive Love to Beauty gave:
The Muses caught the little, little, little Knave,
And captive Love to Beauty gave:
The laughing Dame soon miss’d her Son,
And here and there, and here and there,
And here and there distracted run;
Distracted run, and here and there,
And here and there, and here and there distracted run:
And still his Liberty to gain, his Liberty to gain,
Offers his Ransom,
But in vain, in vain, in vain;
The willing, willing Prisoner still hugs his Chain,
And Vows he’ll ne’er be free,
And Vows he’ll ne’er be free,
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,
No, no, no, no, no he’ll ne’er be free again,
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,
No, no, no, no, no he’ll ne’er be free again.
Old Soldiers.
[[Listen]]
OF old Soldiers, the Song you would hear,
And we old Fidlers have forgot who they were,
But all we remember shall come to your Ear,
That we are old Soldiers of the Queens,
And the Queens old Soldiers.
With the Old Drake, that was the next Man
To Old Franciscus, who first it began,
To sail through the Streights of Magellan,
Like an old Soldier, &c.
That put the proud Spanish Armado to wrack,
And Travell’d all o’er the old World, and came back,
In his old Ship, laden with Gold and old Sack,
Like an old Soldier, &c.
With an Old Cavendish, that seconded him,
And taught his old Sails the same Passage to swim,
And did them therefore with Cloth of Gold Trim,
Like an old Soldier, &c.
Like an Old Rawleigh, that twice and again,
Sailed over most part of the Seas, and then
Travell’d all o’er the World with his Pen,
Like an old Soldier, &c.
With an Old John Norris, the General,
That at old Gaunt, made his Fame Immortal,
In spight of his Foes, with no loss at all,
Like an old Soldier, &c.
Like Old Brest Fort, an invincible thing,
When the old Queen sent him to help the French King,
Took from the proud Fox, to the World’s wond’ring,
Like an old Soldier, &c.
Where an old stout Fryer, as goes the Story,
Came to push of Pike with him in Vain-glory,
But he was almost sent to his own Purgatory,
By this old Soldier, &c.
With an Old Ned Norris, that kept Ostend,
A terror to Foe, and a Refuge to Friend,
And left it Impregnable to his last End,
Like an old Soldier, &c.
That in the old unfortunate Voyage of all,
March’d o’er the old Bridge, and knock’d at the Wall,
Of Lisbon, the Mistress of Portugal,
Like an old Soldier, &c.
With an Old Tim Norris, by the old Queen sent,
Of Munster in Ireland, Lord President,
Where his Days and his Blood in her service he spent,
Like an old Soldier, &c.
With an Old Harry Norris, in Battle wounded,
In his Knee, whose Leg was cut off, and he said,
You have spoil’d my Dancing, and dy’d in his Bed,
Like an old Soldier, &c.
With an Old Will Norris, the oldest of all,
Who went voluntary, without any Call,
To th’ old Irish Wars, to’s Fame Immortal,
Like an old Soldier, &c.
With an Old Dick Wenman, the first in his Prime,
That over the Walls of old Cales did Clime,
And there was Knighted, and liv’d all his Time,
Like an old Soldier, &c.
With Old Nando Wenman, when Brest was o’er thrown,
Into the Air, into the Seas, with Gunpowder blown,
Yet bravely recovering, long after was known,
For an Old Soldier, &c.
When an Old Tom Wenman, whose bravest delight,
Was in a good Cause for his Country to Fight,
And dy’d in Ireland, a good old Knight,
And an old Soldier, &c.
With a Young Ned Wenman, so valiant and bold,
In the Wars of Bohemia, as with the Old,
Deserves for his Valour to be Enroll’d,
An old Soldier, &c.
And thus of Old Soldiers, ye hear the Fame,
But ne’er so many of one House and Name,
And all of old John Lord Viscount of Thame,
An old Soldier of the Queens,
And the Queens old Soldier.
On the Tombs in Westminster Abby.
You must suppose it to be Easter Holy-Days: At what time Sisly and Dol, Kate and Peggy, Moll and Nan, are marching to Westminster, with a Leash of Prentices before ’em; who go rowing themselves along with their right Arms to make more hast, and now and then with a greasie Muckender wipe away the dripping that bastes their Foreheads. At the Door they meet a crowd of Wapping Sea-men, Southwark Broom-men, the Inhabitants of the Bank-Side, with a Butcher or two prickt in among them. There a while they stand gaping for the Master of the Show, staring upon the Suburbs of their dearest delight, just as they stand gaping upon the painted Cloth before they go into the Puppet Play. By and by they hear the Bunch of Keys, which rejoyces their Hearts like the sound of the Pancake-Bell. For now the Man of Comfort peeps over the Spikes, and beholding such a learned Auditory, opens the Gate of Paradise, and by that time they are half got into the first Chapel, (for time is very precious) he lifts up his Voice among the Tombs, and begins his Lurrey in manner and form following.