Down with the orthodoxal train,

All loyal subjects slay;

When these are gone we shall be blest

The clean contrary way.

When Charles we've bankrupt made, like us

Of crown and power bereft him;

And all his loyal subjects slain,
And none but rebels left him;
When we've beggar'd all the land,
And sent our trunks away,

We'll make him then a glorious prince,
The clean contrary way.

'Tis to preserve his majesty,
That we against him fight,
Nor are we ever beaten back,
Because our cause is right.
If any make a scruple on't,
Our declarations say

Who fight for us, fight for the king,

The clean contrary way.

At Keynton, Branford, Plymouth, York,
And divers places more;
What victories we saints obtain'd,
The like ne'er seen before.
How often we prince Robert kill'd,
And bravely won the day,
The wicked cavaliers did run
The clean contrary way.

The true religion we maintain,

The kingdom's peace and plenty;

The privilege of parliament,

Not known to one of twenty; The ancient fundamental laws, And teach men to obey

Their lawful soveveign, and all these,

The clean contrary way.
We subjects' liberties preserve,
By prisonment and plunder,
And do enrich our selves and state
By keeping the wicked under.
We must preserve mechanics now,
To lecturise and pray;
By them the gospel is advanc'd,

The clean contrary way.

And though the king be much misled
By that malignant crew,

He'll find us honest, and at last
Give all of us our due.

For we do wisely plot, and plot
Rebellion to destroy,

He sees we stand for peace and truth,
The clean contrary way.

The public faith shall save our souls,
And good out-works together,
And ships shall save our lives that stay,
Only for wind and weather.

But when our faith and works fall down,
And all our hopes decay,

Our acts will bear us up to Heaven,

The clean contrary way.

And cast away care and sorrow;
He's a fool that takes care for to-morrow.
Why should we be droopers,
To save it for troopers.
Let's spend our own,

And when all is gone,

That they can have none,

Then the Roundheads and Caves agree.

Then fall to your drinking,

And leave off this shrinking,

Let Square-heads and Round-heads quarrel, We have no other foe but the barrel.

These cares and disasters,

Shall ne'er be our masters,
English and Scot,

Doth both love a pot,

Though they say they do not,

Here the Roundheads and Caves agree.

A man that is armed
With liquor is charmed,

And proof against strength and cunning,
He scorns the base humour of running.
Our brains are the quicker,

When season'd with liquor,
Let's drink and sing,

Here's a health to our king,
And I wish in this thing,

Both the Roundheads and Caves agree.
A pox of this fighting;
I take no delighting,

In killing of men and plunder,
A gun affrights me like a thunder.
If we can live quiet,

With good drink and diet,
We won't come nigh,
Where the bullets do fly:
In fearing to die,

Both the Roundheads and Caves agree.
'Twixt Square-head and Round-head
The land is confounded,

They care not for fight or battle,
But to plunder our goods and cattle.
Whene'er they come to us,
They come to undo us,
Their chiefest hate

Is at our estate,

And in sharing of that,

Both the Roundheads and Caves agree.

In swearing and lying,
In cowardly flying,

In whoring, in cheating, and stealing,
They agree; and all damnable dealing.
He's a fool and a widgeon,
That thinks they've religion,
For law and right,

Are o'er-rul'd by might,

But when they should fight,

Then the Roundheads and Caves agree.

Then while we have treasure,
Let's spare for no pleasure,

He's a fool that has wealth and won't spend it,
But keeps it for troopers to end it.

When we've nothing to leave 'em,
Then we shall deceive 'em,

If all would be

Of such humours as we,

We should suddenly see

Both the Roundheads and Caves agree.

Xx

The poor Cavaliers, thought all was their own
And now was their time to sway,
But friends they have few, and money they've none,
And so they mistook their way.
[rout 'em
When they seek for preferments the rebels do
And having no money, they must go without 'em,
The courtiers do carry such stomachs about 'em,
They spake no English but pay.

And those very rebels that hated the king,
And no such office allow;

By the help of their boldness, and one other thing
Are brought to the king to bow.

And there both pardons, and honours they have,
With which they think they're secure and brave,
But the title of knight, on the back of a knave,
Is like a saddle upon a sow.

Those men are but fools, as matters now stand,
That would not be rebels and traitors,
To grow rich and rant o'er the best of the land,
And tread on the poor cinque quaters.
To do what they list, and none dare complain,
To rise from a cart and drive Charles his wain,
And for this be made lords and knights in grain,
O'tis sweet to ambitious natures.

If the times turn about 'tis but to comply,
And make a formal submission;
And with every new power to live and die,

Then they are in a safe condition.
For none are condemned but those that are dead,
Nor must be secur'd, but those that are fled,
And none but the poor rogues sequestred,

The great ones buy remission.

The fortieth part of their riches will
Secure t'other thirty-nine;
And so they will keep above us still,

But hang't, we'll ne'er repine.

The devil does into their natures creep,
That they can no more from their villany keep;
Than a wolf broke loose, can from killing of sheep,
Or a poet refrain from wine.

Now Heaven preserve our merciful king,
And continue his grace and pity,
And may his prosperity be like a spring,
And stream from him to the city!
May James and Henry, those dukes of renown,
Be the two supporters of England's crown!
And may all honest men enjoy what's their own!
And so I corciude my ditty.

And then they bought Heaven of the pedlar.

First surplices I took,

Next the common-prayer book,

And made all those papists that us'd 'em ; Then the bishops and deans

I stripp'd of their means,

And gave it to those that abus'd 'em.

The clergymen next,

I withdrew from their text,

And set up the gifted brother;

Thus religion I made,

But a matter of trade,

And I car'd not for one or t'other.

Then tythes I fell upon,

And those I quickly won,

'Twas profane in the clergy to take 'em;

But they serv'd for the lay,

Till I sold them away,

And so did religious make 'em.

But now come away

To the pedlar I pray,

I scorn to rob or cousen ;

If churches you lack,

Come away to my pack,

Here's thirteen to the dozen.

Church militants they be,

For now we do see,

They have fought so long with each other;

The Rump's-churches threw down

Those that stood for the crown,

And sold them to one another.

Then come you factious crew,
Here's a bargain now for you,

With the spoils of the church you may revel;

Now pull down the bells,

And then hang up your selves,

And so give his due to the devil.

No more, no more of this, I vow,
'Tis time to leave this fooling now,
Which few but fools call wit;
There was a time when I begun,
And now 'tis time I should have done,
And meddle no more with it.
He physic's use doth quite mistake,
That physic takes for physic's sake.
My heat of youth, and love and pride,
Did swell me with their strong spring-tide,
Inspir'd my brain and blood,

And made me then converse with toys,
Which are call'd Muses by the boys,
And dabble in their flood.

I was persuaded in those days,
There was no crown like love and bays.
But now my youth and pride are gone,
And age and cares come creeping on,

And business checks my love;
What need I take a needless toil,
To spend my labour, time and oil,
Since no design can move.

For now the cause is ta'en away,

What reason is't the effect should stay?

"Tis but a folly now for me,

To spend my time and industry,
About such useless wit;

For when I think I have done well,
I see men laugh, but cannot tell

Where 't be at me or it.

Great madness 'tis to be a drudge,
When those that cannot write dare judge.

Besides the danger that ensu'th,
To him that speaks or writes the truth,
The premium is so small;

To be called poet and wear bays,
And factor turn of songs and plays,
This is no wit at all.

Wit only good to sport and sing,
Is a needless and an endless thing.

Give me the wit that can't speak sense,
Nor read it, but in's own defence,

Ne'er learn'd but of his grannum : He that can buy, and sell, and cheat, May quickly make a shift to get

His thousand pound per annum; And purchase, without much ado, The poems and the poet too.

EPISTLES.

TO C. C. ESQ.

INSPIRED with love and kindled by that flame,
Which from your eye and conversation came,
I proceed versifier, and can't choose,
Since you are both my patron and my Muse.
Whose fair example makes us know and do,
You make us poets, and you feed us too.

And though where'er you are is Helicon.
Since all the Muses proudly wait upon
Your parts and person too; while we sit here
And like Baal's priests our flesh do cut and tear.
Yet, for our lives, can't make our baggage Muse
Lend us a lift, or one rich thought infuse,
Or be as much as midwife to a quibble,
But leave us to ourselves with pangs to scribble
What, were we wise, we might well blush to view :
While we're invoking them, they're courting you.
Yet I conceive (and won't my notion smother)
You and your house contribute to each other.
Such bills, such dales, such plains, such rocks, such
And such a confluence of all such things [springs,
As raise and gratify the Muses, so
That in one night I was created ro-
That's half a poet, I can't reach to ET,
Because I'm not a perfect poet, yet,
And I despair perfection to attain,
Unless I'm sent to school to you again.

Alas, sir, London is no place for verse! Ingenious harmless thoughts, polite and terse, Our age admits not, we are wrapp'd in smoke, And sin, and business, which the Muses choke. Those things in which true poesy takes pleasure, We here do want; tranquillity and leisure. Yet we have wits, and some that for wits go, Some real ones, and some that would be so, But 'tis ill-natured wit, and such as still, To th' subject or the object worketh ill; A wit to cheat, to ruin, to betray, Which renders useless what we do or say. This wit will not bear verse, some things we have, Who in their out-side do seem brisk and brave, And are as gaudy as the chancellor's purse; But full as empty too. And here's our curse, Few men discern the difference 'twixt wit That's sterling, and that's not, but looks like it Inrich us with your presence, make us know How much the nation does to Derby one.

THE ANSWER.

WHEN in this dirty corner of the world, Where all the rubbish of the rest is hurl'd, Both men and manners; this abandon'd place, Where scarce the Sun dares shew his radiant face, I met thy lines, they made me wond'ring stand, At thy unknown, and yet the friendly hand. Straight through the air m' imagination flew To ev'ry region I had seen, or knew; And kindly bless'd (at her returning home) My greedy ear, with the glad name of Brome. Then I reproach'd myself for my suspence, And mourn'd my own want of intelligence, That could not know thy celebrated Muse, (Though mask'd with all the art that art can use) At the first sight, which to the dullest eyes, No names conceal'd, nor habit can disguise. For who (ingenious friend) but only thee, (Who art the soul of wit, and courtesy) Writes in so pure, an unaffected strain, As shows, wit's ornament is to be plain; Or would caress a man condemn'd to lie Buried from all humane society, 'Mongst brutes and bandogs in a Lerncan fen, Whose natives have nor souls, nor shape of men? How could thy Muse, that in her noble flight, The boding raven cuff'd, and in his height Of untam'd power, and unbounded place, Durst mate the haughty tyrant to his face, Deign an inglorious stoop, and from the sky Fall down to prey on such a worm as I ? Her seeing (sure) my state made her relent, And try to charm me from my banishment; Nor has her charitable purpose fail'd, For when I first beheld her face unveil'd, I kiss'd the paper, as an act of grace Sent to retrieve me from this wretched place, And doubted not to go abroad again To see the world, and to converse with men : But when I taste the dainties of the flood (Ravish'd from Neptune's table for my food) The Lucrine lake's plump oysters 1 despise, With all the other Roman luxuries, And, wanton grown, contemn the famous breed Of sheep and oxen, which these mountains feed. Then as a snake, benumb'd and fit t' expire, If laid before the comfortable fire Begins to stir, and feels her vitals beat Their healthful motion, at the quick'ning heat: So my poor Muse, that was half starv'd before On these bleak cliffs, nor thought of writing more, Warm'd by thy bounty, now can hiss and spring, And ('tis believ'd by some) will shortly sting

So warm she's grown, and without things like these Minerva must, as well as Venus, freeze.

Thus from a Highlander I straight commence
Poet, by virtue of thy influence,

That with one ray can clods and stones inspire,
And make them pant and breathe poetic fire.
And thus I am thy creature prov'd, who name
And fashion take from thy indulgent flame.

What should I send thee then, that may befit
A grateful heart, for such a benefit;
Or how proclaim, with a poetic grace,
What thou hast made me from the thing I was;
When all I writ is artless, forc'd, and dull,
Aud mine as empty as thy fancy full?
All our conceits, alas! are flat and stale,
And our inventions muddy, as our ale :
No friends, no visitors, no company,
But such, as I still pray, I may not see;
Such craggy, rough-hewn rogues, as do not fit,
Sharpen and set, but blunt the edge of wit;
Any of which (and fear has a quick eye)
If through a perspective I chance to spy
Though a mile off, I take th' alarm and run,
As if I saw the devil, or a dun;

And in the neighbouring rocks take sanctuary,
Praying the hills to fall and cover me.
So that my solace lies amongst my grounds,
And my best company's my horse and hounds.

Judge then (my friend) how far I am unfit
To traffic with thee in the trade of wit:
How bankrupt I am grown of all commerce,
Who have all number lost, and air of verse.
But if I could in living song set forth,
Thy Muse's glory, and thine own true worth,
I then would sing an ode, that should not shame,
The writer's purpose, nor the subject's name.
Yet, what a grateful heart, and such a one,
As (by thy virtues) thou hast made thine own,
Can poorly pay, accept for what is due,
Which if it be not rhyme, I'll swear 'tis true.

C. COTTON.

TO HIS UNIVERSITY FRIEND.
DEAR CAPTAIN,

WANT, the great master of three greater things,
Art, strength, and boldness, gives this letter wings
To kiss (that is salute) you and say A. B.
To his renowned captain s. P. D.

And to request three greater things than those,
Things that beget good verse, and stubborn prose.

The first is drink, which you did promise would Inform the brain, as well as warm the blood; Drink that's as powerful and strong as Hector, And as inspiring as the old poets' nectar, That dares confront the legislative sack, And lends more Greek than your grave patriarch. But you may see here's none, for if that I Had been well wet, these had not been so dry.

The next is money, which you said should be Paid, and it may be 'twas, but not to me. Why (friend) d' you think a man as big about As I, can live on promises, without Good drink or money? how'll good sack be had? And who can live without sack, or with bad? Whate'er your academics talk or teach, Mind what they do, they mind not what they preach. In public they may rail at pope and Turk, And at the laities avarice have a firck,