The Cavaleers Complaint.
To the Tune of,
I tell Thee DICK,
&c.
The Cavaleer's Complaint.
COme
Jack, let's drink a Pot of Ale,
And I shall tell Thee such a Tale
Will make thine Eares to ring:
My Coyne is spent, my Time is lost,
And I this Only Fruit can boast,
That Once I saw my
KING.
But This doth most afflict my mind,
I went to Court, in hope to sind
Some of my Friends in Place;
And walking There, I had a sight
Of all the Crew: But, by this Light,
I hardly knew One Face!
S'life, of so many Noble Sparkes,
Who, on their Bodies, bear the Markes
Of their Integritie,
And suffer'd Ruine of Estate;
It was my damn'd unhappy Fate,
That I not One could see!
Not One, upon my Life, among
My old Acquaintance, all along
At
Truro, and before;
And, I suppose, the Place can shew
As few of Those, whom Thou didst know
At
Yorke, or
Marston-moore.
But, truly, There are swarmes of Those,
Who lately were our chiefest Foes,
Of Pantaloons and Muffes;
Whilst the Old rusty Cavaleer
Retires, or dares not once appear
For want of Coyne, and Cuffes.
When none of These I could descry,
Who, better far deserv'd; Then I
Calmely did reflect;
Old Services, (by Rule of State)
Like
Almanacks, grow out of Date,
What then can I expect?
Troth, In contempt of Fortunes frown,
I'll get me fairly out of Town,
And, in a Cloyster, pray,
That, since the Starres are yet unkind
To Royallists, the King may find
More Faithfull Friends than They.
An Eccho to the Cavaleers Complaint.
I Marvell
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!
Are We to lea
[...] is a Court?
A Pageant, made for Fortunes 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 oftimes 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're 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?
Mean while, a calm Retreat is best:
But Discontent, (if not supprest)
Will breed Disloyaltie.
This is the constant Note I sing,
I have been Faithfull to the KING,
And so shall ever be.
LONDON, Printed for Robert Crofts at the CROWN in Chancery lane. 1661.