Ayres and dialogues For One, Two, and Three Voyces; To be Sung either to the theorbo-lute or basse-viol |
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Lilly Contemn'd.
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 | Ayres and dialogues |  |
58
Lilly Contemn'd.
Wwhy art thou sad? Our Glasses flow
Like little Rivers to the Main,
And ne'r a man here hath a Shrew,
What need'st thou then complain?
Then Boyes mind your Glass,
And let all News pass,
That treats not of this our Canary.
Let Lawyers fear their Fate.
In the turn of the State.
Like little Rivers to the Main,
And ne'r a man here hath a Shrew,
What need'st thou then complain?
Then Boyes mind your Glass,
And let all News pass,
That treats not of this our Canary.
Let Lawyers fear their Fate.
In the turn of the State.
Chorus.
We suffer i' this do miscarry: 'Tis this will preserve us 'gainst Lilly's predictions,
and makes us contemn our Fate and his Fictions.
and makes us contemn our Fate and his Fictions.
59
'Tis this maintains the City Ruff,
And lines the Aldermen with Furr;
It makes the Watchmen stiff and tuff
To call, Where go you Sir?
'Tis this doth advance
The Cap of Maintenance,
And keeps the Sword sleeping or waking;
It Courage doth raise
In such men now a dayes,
That heretofore cry'd at Head-aching.
And lines the Aldermen with Furr;
It makes the Watchmen stiff and tuff
To call, Where go you Sir?
'Tis this doth advance
The Cap of Maintenance,
And keeps the Sword sleeping or waking;
It Courage doth raise
In such men now a dayes,
That heretofore cry'd at Head-aching.
Chorus.—
'Tis this doth infuse in a Miser some pity,
And is the Genius and Soul of the City.
And is the Genius and Soul of the City.
Then why should we despair, or think
The Enemy approacheth nere?
Let such as never use to drink
Sack, be enslav'd to Fear:
Then to get Honour,
And that waits on her,
Strange Titles Illustrious and Mighty,
We'l have a smart Bout,
Shall speak us men and stout,
And I'le be the first that shall fight ye.
The Enemy approacheth nere?
Let such as never use to drink
Sack, be enslav'd to Fear:
Then to get Honour,
And that waits on her,
Strange Titles Illustrious and Mighty,
We'l have a smart Bout,
Shall speak us men and stout,
And I'le be the first that shall fight ye.
Chorus.—
He that stifly can stand to't, and hath the best Brain;
Shall be styl'd Son of Mars, and God of the Main.
Shall be styl'd Son of Mars, and God of the Main.
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