University of Virginia Library

Man of warre, march brauely on,
The field's not easie to be wonne;
There's no danger in that warre,
Where lips both swords and bucklers are.
Here's no cold to chill thee;
A bed of downe's thy field:
Here's no sword to kill thee,
Vnlesse thou please to yeeld;
Here is nothing will incumber,
Here will be no scars to number.
These are warres of Cupids making,
These be warres will keepe yee waking,
Till the earely breaking Day
Call your forces hence, away.
These are warres that make no spoyle,
Death shoots his shafts in vaine;
Though the souldier get a foyle,
He will rouze, and fight againe.
These be warres that neuer cease,
But conclude a mutuall peace.
Let benigne and prosp'rous starres
Breathe successe vpon these warres,
And when thrice three months be runne,
Be thou father of a sonne;
A son, that may deriue from thee
The honor of true merit,
And may to ages, yet to be,
Conuay thy blood thy spirit;
Making the glory of his fame
Perpetuate, and crowne thy name;
And giue it life in spight of death,
When fame shal want both trump and breath.