Of each lout
            That doth come,
         With a voice
         Like the noise
            Of a drum,
      And a sword or a buff-coat, to us?
      Shall we lose our estates
      By plunder and rates,
To bedeck those proud upstarts that swagger?
      Rather fight for your meat
      Which those locusts do eat,
Now every man’s a beggar.

THE ROYALIST.

By Alex. Brome.  Written 1646.

Come pass about the bowl to me,
   A health to our distressed King;
Though we’re in hold let cups go free,
   Birds in a cage may freely sing.
The ground does tipple healths afar
   When storms do fall, and shall not we?
A sorrow dares not show its face
   When we are ships, and sack’s the sea.

Pox on this grief, hang wealth, let’s sing;
   Shall’s kill ourselves for fear of death?
We’ll live by th’ air which songs do bring,
   Our sighing does but waste our breath.
Then let us not be discontent,
   Nor drink a glass the less of wine;
In vain they’ll think their plagues are spent
   When once they see we don’t repine.

We do not suffer here alone,
   Though we are beggar’d, so’s the King;
’Tis sin t’ have wealth when he has none,
   Tush! poverty’s a royal thing!
When we are larded well with drink,
   Our head shall turn as round as theirs,
Our feet shall rise, our bodies sink
   Clean down the wind like Cavaliers.

Fill this unnatural quart with sack,
   Nature all vacuums doth decline;
Ourselves will be a zodiac,
   And every mouth shall be a sign.
Methinks the travels of the glass
   Are circular, like Plato’s year;
Where everything is as it was
   Let’s tipple round: and so ’tis here.

THE NEW COURTIER.

By Alex. Brome. 1648.

               Since it must be so
               Then so let it go,
Let the giddy-brain’d times turn round;
Since we have no king let the goblet be crown’d,
   Our monarchy thus will recover:
      While the pottles are weeping
               We’ll drench our sad souls
               In big-bellied bowls;
      Our sorrows in sack shall lie steeping,
   And we’ll drink till our eyes do run over;
               And prove it by reason
               That it can be no treason
To drink and to sing
A mournival of healths to our new-crown’d King.

               Let us all stand bare;—
               In the presence we are,
Let our noses like bonfires shine;
Instead of the conduits, let the pottles run wine,
   To perfect this new coronation;
      And we that are loyal
               In drink shall be peers,
               While that face that wears
      Pure claret, looks like the blood-royal,
   And outstares the bones of the nation:
               In sign of obedience,
               Our oath of allegiance
Beer-glasses shall be,
And he that tipples ten is of the nobility.

               But if in this reign
               The halberted train
Or the constable should rebel,
And should make their turbill’d militia to swell,
   And against the King’s party raise arms;
      Then the drawers, like yeomen
               Of the guards, with quart pots
               Shall fuddle the sots,
      While we make ’em both cuckolds and freemen;
   And on their wives beat up alarums.
               Thus as each health passes
               We’ll triple the glasses,
And hold it no sin
To be loyal and drink in defence of our King.

UPON THE CAVALIERS DEPARTING OUT OF LONDON.

By Alex. Brome.

Now fare thee well, London,
Thou next must be undone,
   ’Cause thou hast undone us before;
This cause and this tyrant
Had never play’d this high rant
   Were’t not for thy argent d’or.

Now we must desert thee,
With the lines that begirt thee,
   And the red-coated saints domineer;
Who with liberty fool thee,
While a monster doth rule thee,
   And thou feel’st what before thou didst fear.

Now justice and freedom,
With the laws that did breed ’em,
   Are sent to Jamaica for gold,
And those that upheld ’em
Have power but seldom,
   For justice is barter’d and sold.

Now the Christian religion
Must seek a new region,
   And the old saints give way to the new;
And we that are loyal
Vail to those that destroy all,
   When the Christian gives place to the Jew.

But this is our glory,
In this wretched story
   Calamities fall on the best;
And those that destroy us
Do better employ us,
   To sing till they are supprest.

A MAD WORLD, MY MASTERS.

From the King’s pamphlets, British Museum.

We have a King, and yet no King,
   For he hath lost his power;
For ’gainst his will his subjects are
   Imprison’d in the Tower.

We had some laws (but now no laws)
   By which he held his crown;
And we had estates and liberties,
   But now they’re voted down.

We had religion, but of late
   That’s beaten down with clubs;
Whilst that profaneness authorized
   Is belched forth in tubs.

We were free subjects born, but now
   We are by force made slaves,
By some whom we did count our friends,
   But in the end proved knaves.

And now to such a grievous height
   Are our misfortunes grown,
That our estates are took away
   By tricks before ne’er known.

For there are agents sent abroad
   Most humbly for to crave
Our alms; but if they are denied,
   And of us nothing have,

Then by a vote ex tempore
   We are to prison sent,
Mark’d with the name of enemy,
   To King and Parliament:

And during our imprisonment,
   Their lawless bulls do plunder
A license to their soldiers,
   Our houses for to plunder.

And if their hounds do chance to smell
   A man whose fortunes are
Of some account, whose purse is full,
   Which now is somewhat rare;

A monster now, delinquent term’d,
   He is declared to be,
And that his lands, as well as goods,
   Sequester’d ought to be.

As if our prisons were too good,
   He is to Yarmouth