PLague us not with idle Stories,
Whining Loves, whining Loves, whining Loves,
And Senceless Glories.
What are Lovers? what are Kings?
What, at best, but slavish Things?
What are Lovers? what are Kings?
What, at best, but slavish Things?
What, at best, but slavish Things?

Free I liv’d as Nature made me,
Love nor Beauty durst invade me,
No rebellious Slaves betray’d me,
Free I liv’d as Nature made me,
Each by turns as Sence inspired me,
Bacchus, Ceres, Venus fir’d me,
I alone have learnt true Pleasure,
Freedom, Freedom, Freedom is the only, only Treasure.

LET Ambition fire thy Mind,
Thou wert born o’er Men to Reign;
Not to follow Flocks design’d,
Scorn thy Crook, and leave the Plain:
Not to follow Flocks design’d,
Scorn thy Crook, and leave the Plain.

Crowns I’ll throw beneath thy Feet,
Thou on Necks of Kings shalt tread,
Joys in Circles, Joys shall meet,
Which way e’re thy fancy leads.

A Whig that’s full,
An empty Scull,
A Box of Burgamot;
A Hat ne’er made
To fit his Head
No more than that to Plot.
A Hand that’s White,
A Ring that’s right,
A Sword, Knot, Patch and Feather;
A Gracious Smile,
And Grounds and Oyl,
Do very well together.

A smatch of French,
And none of Sence,
All Conquering Airs and Graces;
A Tune that Thrills,
A Lear that Kills,
Stoln Flights and borrow’d Phrases.
A Chariot Gilt,
To wait on Jilt,
An awkward Pace and Carriage;
A Foreign Tower,
Domestick Whore,
And Mercenary Marriage.

A Limber Ham,
G—— D—— ye M’am,
A Smock-Face, tho’ a Tann’d one;
A Peaceful Sword,
Not one wise Word,
But State and Prate at Random.
Duns, Bastards, Claps,
And Am’rous Scraps,
Of Cælia and Amadis;
Toss up a Beau,
That Grand Ragou,
That Hodge-Podge for the Ladies.

WHen I languish’d and wish’d you wou’d something bestow,
You bad me to give it a Name;
But by Heav’n I know it as little as you,
Tho’ my Ignorance passes for Shame:
You take for Devotion each passionate Glance,
And think the dull Fool is sincere;
But never believe that I spake in Romance,
On purpose to tickle, on purpose, on purpose,
On purpose to tickle your Ear:
To please me than more, think still I am true,
And hug each Apocryphal Text;
Tho’ I practice a Thousand false Doctrines on you,
I shall still have enough, I shall still have enough,
Shall still have enough for the next.

HIther turn thee, hither turn thee, hither turn thee gentle Swain,
Hither turn thee, hither turn thee, hither turn thee gentle Swain,
Let not Venus, let not Venus, let not Venus sue in vain;
Venus rules, Venus rules, Venus rules the Gods above,
Love rules them, Love rules them, Love rules them, and she rules Love?
Venus rules the Gods above,
Love rules them, Love rules them, Love rules them,
Love rules them, Love rules them, and she rules Love.
Love rules them, and she rules Love.

BElinda! why do you distrust,
So faithful and so kind a Heart:
Which cannot prove to you unjust,
But must it self endure the smart:
No, no, no, no the wandring Stars,
Shall sooner cease their Motion;
And Nature reconcile the Jars,
’Twixt Boreas and the Ocean:
The fixed Poles shall seem to move,
And ramble from their Places;
E’er I’ll from fair Belinda rove,
Or slight her charming Graces.

LONG was the Day e’re Alexis my Lover,
To finish my Hopes would his Passion reveal;
He could not speak, nor I could not discover,
What my poor aking Heart was so loath to conceal:
Till the Strength of his Passion his Fear had remov’d,
Then we mutually talk’d, and we mutually lov’d.

Groves for Umbrella’s did kindly o’er-shade us,
From Phœbus hot rages, who like envy in strove;
Had not kind Fate this Provision made us,
All the Nymphs of the Air would have envy’d our Love:
But we stand below Envy that ill-natur’d Fate,
And above cruel Scorn is happy Estate.

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.

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.

HERE lies William de Valence,
A right good Earl of Pembroke,
And this is his Monument which you see,
I’ll swear upon a Book.

He was high Marshal of England,
When Henry the Third did Reign;
But this you take upon my Word,
That he’ll ne’er be so again.

Here the Lord Edward Talbot lies,
The Town of Shrewsbury’s Earl;
Together with his Countess fair,
That was a most delicate Girl.

The next to him there lyeth one,
Sir Richard Peckshall hight;
Of whom we only this do say,
He was a Hampshire Knight.

But now to tell you more of him,
There lies beneath this Stone:
Two Wives of his, and Daughters four,
To all of Us unknown.

Sir Bernard Brockhurst there doth lie,
Lord Chamberlain to Queen Ann;
Queen Ann was Richard the Second’s Queen,
And was King of England.

Sir Francis Hollis, the Lady Frances,
The same was Suffolk’s Dutchess;
Two Children of Edward the Third,
Lie here in Death’s cold Clutches.

This is the Third King Edward’s Brother,
Of whom our Records tell
Nothing of Note, nor say they whether,
He be in Heaven or Hell.

This same was John of Eldeston,
He was no Costermonger;
But Cornwall’s Earl, and here’s one dy’d,
’Cause he could live no longer.

The Lady Mohun, Dutchess of York,
And Duke of York’s Wife also;
But Death resolv’d to Horn the Duke,
She lies now with Death below.

The Lady Ann Ross, but wot ye well,
That she in Childbed dy’d;
The Lady Marquiss of Winchester,
Lies Buried by her side.

Now think your Penny well spent good Folks,
And that you’re not beguil’d;
Within this Cup doth lie the Heart
Of a French Embassador’s Child.

But how the Devil it came to pass,
On purpose, or by chance;
Dol. I warrant ye the Pharises carried it away.The Bowels they lie underneath,
The Body is in France.

There’s Oxford’s Countess, and there also
The Lady Burleigh her Mother;
And there her Daughter, a Countess too,
Lie close by one another.

These once were bonny Dames, and tho’
There were no Coaches then,
Dick. Ho, ho, ho, I warrant ye they did as other Women did, ha Ralf. Ralf. Oy, Oy.Yet could they jog their Tails themselves,
Or had them jogg’d by Men.

But woe is me! those high born Sinners;
That went to pray so stoutly;
Are now laid low, and ’cause they can’t,
Their Statues pray devoutly.

This is the Dutchess of Somerset,
By Name the Lady Ann;
Tom. I have heard a Ballad of him sang at Ratcliff Cross. Mol. I believe we have it at home over our Kitchin Mantle-Tree.Her Lord Edward the Sixth Protected,
Oh! he was a Gallant Man.

In this fair Monument which you see,
Adorn’d with so many Pillars;
Doth lie the Countess of Buckingham,
And her Husband, Sir George Villers.

This old Sir George was Grandfather,
And the Countess she was Granny;
To the great Duke of Buckingham,
Who often topt King Jammy.

Sir Robert Eatam, a Scotch Knight,
This Man was Secretary;
And scribl’d Compliments for two Queens,
Queen Ann, and eke Queen Mary.

This was the Countess of Lenox,
Yclep’d the Lady Marget:
King James’s Grandmother, and yet
’Gainst Death she had no Target.

This was Queen Mary, Queen of Scots,
Whom Buchanan doth bespatter;
Dol. How came she here then? Will. Why ye silly Oafe could not she be brought here, after she was Dead?She lost her Head at Tottingham,
What ever was the Matter.

The Mother of our Seventh Henry,
This is that lyeth hard by;
She was the Countess wot ye well,
Of Richmond and of Derby.

Henry the Seventh lieth here,
With his fair Queen beside him,
He was the Founder of this Chapel,
Oh! may no ill betide him.

Therefore his Monument’s in Brass,
You’ll say that very much is;
Rog. I warrant ye these were no small Fools in those days.The Duke of Richmond and Lenox,
There lieth with his Dutchess.

And here they stand upright in a Press
With Bodies made of Wax;
With a Globe and a Wand in either Hand,
And their Robes upon their Backs.

Here lies the Duke of Buckingham,
And the Dutchess his Wife;
Him Felton Stabb’d at Portsmouth Town,
And so he lost his Life.

Two Children of King James these are,
Whom Death keeps very chary;
Bess. Good Woman pray still your Child, it keeps such a bawling, we can’t hear what the Man says.Sophia in the Cradle lies,
And this is the Lady Mary.

And this is Queen Elizabeth,
How the Spaniards did infest her?
Here she lies Buried, with Queen Mary,
And now agrees with her Sister.

To another Chapel now we come,
The People follow and chat;
This is the Lady Cottington,
And the People cry, who’s that?

This is the Lady Frances Sidney,
The Countess of Suffolk was she;
And this the Lord Dudley Carleton is,
And then they look up and see.

Sir Thomas Brumley lieth here,
Death would him not reprieve;
With his four Sons, and Daughters four,
That once were all alive.

The next is Sir John Fullerton,
And this is his Lady I trow;
And this is Sir John Puckering,
Whom none of you did know.

That’s the Earl of Bridgwater in the middle,
Who makes no use of his Bladder;
Although his Lady lie so near him,
And so we go up a Ladder.

Kate. He took more pains, than I would ha done for a Hundred such.Edward the First, that Gallant Blade,
Lies underneath this Stone;
And this is the Chair which he did bring,
A good while ago from Scone.

Ralf. Gad I warrant there has been many a Maiden-head got in that Chair. Tom. Gad and I’ll come hither and try one of these Days, an’t be but to get a Prince. Dol. A Papist I warrant him.In this same Chair, till now of late,
Our Kings and Queens were Crown’d;
Under this Chair another Stone
Doth lie upon the Ground.

On that same Stone did Jacob sleep,
Instead of a Down Pillow;
And after that ’twas hither brought,
By some good honest Fellow.

Richard the Second lieth here,
And his first Queen, Queen Ann;
Edward the Third lies here hard by,
Oh! there was a Gallant Man.

For this was his two handed Sword,
A Blade both true and Trusty;
The French Men’s Blood was ne’er wip’d off,
Which makes it look so rusty.

Here he lies again, with his Queen Philip,
A Dutch Woman by Record,
But that’s all one, for now alass!
His Blade’s not so long as his Sword.

King Edward the Confessor lies
Within this Monument fine;
I’m sure, quoth one, a worser Tomb
Must serve both me and mine.

Harry the Fifth lies there, and there
Doth lie Queen Eleanor;
To our first Edward she was Wife,
Which was more than ye knew before.

Henry the Third lies there Entomb’d,
He was Herb John in Pottage;
Little he did, but still Reign’d on,
Although his Sons were at Age.

Fifty six Years he Reigned King,
E’er he the Crown would lay by;
Only we praise him, ’cause he was
Last Builder of the Abby.

Here Thomas Cecil lies, who’s that?
Why ’tis the Earl of Exeter;
Dol. Ay, ay, I warrant her, rich Folks are as unwilling to die as poor Folks.And this his Countess is, to Die
How it perplexed her.

Here Henry Cary, Lord Hunsdon rests,
What a noise he makes with his Name?
Sisly. That’s he for whom our Bells ring so often, is it not Mary? Mol. Ay, ay, the very same.Lord Chamberlain was he unto
Queen Elizabeth of great Fame.

And here’s one William Colchester
Lies of a Certainty;
An Abbot was he of Westminster,
And he that saith no, doth lie.

This is the Bishop of Durham,
By Death here lay’d in Fetters;
Henry the Seventh lov’d him well,
And so he wrote his Letters.

Sir Thomas Bacchus, what of him?
Poor Gentleman not a Word;
Only they Buried him here; but now
Behold that Man with a Sword.

Humphry de Bohun, who though he were
Not born with me i’the same Town;
Yet I can tell he was Earl of Essex,
Of Hertford, and Northampton.

He was High Constable of England,
As History well expresses;
But now pretty Maids be of good Chear,
We’re going up to the Presses.

And now the Presses open stand,
And ye see them all arow;
But never no more are said of these
Then what is said below.

Now down the Stairs come we again,
The Man goes first with a Staff;
Some two or three tumble down the Stairs,
And then the People laugh.

This is the great Sir Francis Vere,
That so the Spaniards curry’d;
Four Colonels support his Tomb,
And here his Body’s Buried.

Dick. I warrant ye he had two, if he could have but kep’d ’em.That Statue against the Wall with one Eye,
Is Major General Norris;
He beat the Spaniards cruelly,
As is affirm’d in Stories.

His six Sons there hard by him stand,
Each one was a Commander;
To shew he could a Lady serve,
As well as the Hollander.

And there doth Sir John Hollis rest,
Who was the Major General;
To Sir John Norris, that brave blade,
And so they go to Dinner all.

For now the Shew is at an end,
All things are done and said;
The Citizen pays for his Wife,
The Prentice for the Maid.

CÆLIA my Heart has often rang’d,
Like Bees o’er Gaudy Flowers;
And many Thousand Loves have chang’d,
’Till it was fix’d, ’till it was fix’d on yours;
But Cælia when I saw those Eyes,
’Twas soon, ’twas soon determin’d there;
Stars might as well forsake the Skies,
And Vanish into Air:
Stars might as well forsake the Skies,
And Vanish into Air.

Now if from the great Rules I err,
New Beauties, new Beauties to admire;
May I again, again turn wanderer,
And never, never, never, never, never, no, never,
Never, never, never, never, never, never, never,
Never, never, never, settle more:
May I again, again turn wanderer,
And never, never, never, never, never, no, never,
Never, never, never, never, never, never, never,
Never, never, never, settle more.

THo’ over all Mankind, besides my conquering Beauty,
Conquering beauty, my conquering beauty Reigns;
My conquering Beauty Reigns;
From him I love, from him I love when I meet disdain,
A killing damp, a killing damp comes o’er my Pride:
I’m fair and young, I’m fair and young,
I’m fair and young in vain:
I’m fair and young, I’m fair and young,
I’m fair and young in vain;
No, no, no, let him wander where he will,
Let him wander, let him wander,
Let him wander, let him wander where he will,
I shall have Youth and Beauty, Youth and Beauty,
Youth and Beauty,
I shall have Youth and Beauty, Youth and Beauty still;
I shall have Beauty that can charm a Jove,
Can Charm a Jove, and no fault,
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no fault, no, no, no fault,
But constant Love:
From my Arms then let him fly, fly, fly,
From my Arms then let him fly;
Shall I languish, pine, and dye?
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no not I.

STAY, ah stay, ah turn, ah whither wou’d you fly?
Ah stay, ah turn, ah whither wou’d you fly?
Whither, whither wou’d you fly?
Too Charming, too Charming, too relentless Maid,
I follow not to conquer, not to conquer,
I follow not to conquer, but to dye:
You of the fearful, of the fearful are afraid,
Ah stay, ah turn, ah whither wou’d you fly?
Whither, whither, whither, whither, ah whither wou’d you fly?

In vain, in vain I call, in vain, in vain I call,
While she like fleeting, fleeting Air;
When press’d by some tempestuous Wind,
Flys swifter from the voice of my Despair:
Nor cast a pitying, pitying, pitying, pitying look behind,
No not one, no not one, not one pitying, pitying look,
Not one pitying, pitying, pitying look behind,
No not one, no not one, not one pitying, pitying, pitying look behind,
No not one, no not one, not one pitying, pitying, pitying look behind.

NO more let Damon’s Eyes pursue,
No more let Damon’s Eyes pursue,
The bright enchanting Fair;
Almira thousands, thousands, thousands can undo,
And thousands more, and thousands more,
And thousands more may still despair,
And thousands more may still despair.

For oh her bright alluring Eyes,
And Graces all admire;
For her the wounded Lover dies,
And ev’ry Breast, and ev’ry Heart,
And ev’ry Breast is set on Fire.

Then oh poor Damon, see thy Fate,
But never more complain;
For all a Thousand Hearts will stake,
And all may sigh, and all may die,
And all may sigh and die in vain.

HO my dear Joy, now what dost thou think?
Hoop by my shoul our Country-men stink;
To Ireland they can never return,
The Hereticks there our Houses will burn:
Ah hone, ah hone, ah hone a cree.

A Pox on T——l for a Son of a W——,
He was the cause of our coming o’er;
And when to Dublin we came to put on our Coats,
He told us his business was cutting of Throats.
Ah hone, &c.

Our Devil has left us now in the Lurch,
A Plague light upon the Protestant C——
If P——s had let but the Bishops alone,
O then the Nation had all been our own.
Ah hone, &c.

And I wish other Measures had been taken,
For now I fear we shan’t save our Bacon;
Now Orange to London is coming down-right,
And the Soldiers against him resolve not to Fight
Ah hone, &c.

What we shall do, the Lord himself knows,
Our Army is beaten without any blows;
Our M——r begins to feel some remorse,
For the Grey Mare has proved the better Horse.
Ah hone, &c.

If the French do but come, which is all our Hopes,
We’ll bundle the Hereticks all up with Ropes;
If London stands to us as Bristol has done,
We need not fear but Orange must run.
Ah hone, &c.

But if they prove false, and to Orange they scower,
By G—— all the M—— shall play from the Tower;
Our Massacree fresh in their Memories grown,
The Devil tauk me, we all shall go down.
A hone, a hone, a hone a Cree.