Tho' he be wife by my advice

Was in the plot most foul-a.

The witty poet, (let all know it)

D'Avenant by name-a,

In this defign that I call mine

I utterly disclaim-a.

Tho' he can write he cannot fight
And bravely take a fort-a,
Nor can he smell a project well,

His nofe it is too fhort-a.

80

84

'Tis true we met in council fet, And plotted here in profe-a, And what he wanted it is granted

A bridge made of his nofe a.

But to impart it to his art
We had made pretty stuff-a:

No, for the plot that we had got
One poet was enough-a;

Which had not Fate and prying State

Crush'd in the very womb-a,

We had e'er long by power strong

Made England but one tomb-a.

Oh what a fright had bred that fight

When Ireland, Scotland, France-a,

Within the wall of London all

In fev'ral troops should prance-a!

When men quarter'd, women flaughter'd,

In heaps every where-a

So thick fhould die the enemy

The very fight should scare-a;

That they afraid of what they made,

A ftream of blood fo high-a,

For fafery fled, fhould mount the dead,

And unto heav'n get nigh-a.

The fcarlet gown and beft i' th' 'Town

Each other would bewail a,

That their fhut purfe had brought this curfe
That did fo much prevail-a.

103

112

116

Each alderman in his own chain

Being hang'd up like a dog-a,

And all the City without pity
Made but one bloody bog-a.

120

The Irish kern in battle ftern For all their faults fo foul-a,

Pride, ufe, ill-gain, and want of brain,
Teaching them how to howl-a.

124

No longer then the fine women

The Scots would praise and trust-a,

The wanton dames being burnt in flames
Far hotter than their luft-a:

128

To raise their fort and fpoil their fport
We did intend and mean-a.

144

With many things confufion brings
To kingdoms in an hour-a,

To burn up tillage, fack and pillage,
And handfome maids deflour-a.

148

Had ftruck us dead, (who now are fled)

But yet we hope he 'Il 'fcape the rope

That now him fo doth fright-a,

The Parliament being content

That he his fact fhould write-a.

168

* Sir William D'Avenant the dramatick poet, and author

of Gondibert, &c.

Volume II.

SONGS.

SONG.

You fay you love; repeat again,
Repeat th' amazing found;
Repeat the ease of all my pain,
The cure of ev'ry wound.

What you to thousands have deny'd
To me you freely give;

Whilft I in humble filence dy'd
Your mercy bids me live.

Endymion fighing lay,

Gaz'd on the moon's tranfcendent light,

Defpair'd and durft not pray.

But divine Cynthia saw his grief
Th' effect of conq'ring charms;
Unafk'd the goddess brings relief,
And falls into his arms.