SONG XLVI. At the Surrender of Oxon.
1
Thou
Man of Men, who e're thou art,
That hast a Loyal, Royal Heart,
Despaire not! though thy Fortune frown!
Our Cause, is Gods, and not our Own;
'Twere sin, to harbour Jealous feares,
The World laments, for Cavaleers, Cavaleers.
2
Those Things (like Men) that swarm, ith' Town,
Like Motions, wander up, and down;
And were the Rogues, not full of blood,
You'd swear, they men were, made of wood:
The Fellow-feeling-wanton swears,
There are no Men, but Cavaleers, &c.
3
Ladies, be pearl, their Diamond Eyes,
And curse, Dame Shipton's Prophecyes
Fearing they never shall be sped,
To wrestle, for a Maiden-head:
But feelingly, with doleful tears,
They sigh, and mourn for Cavaleers, &c.
4
Our grave Divines, are silenc'd quite.
Ecclipsing thus, our Churches Light:
Religion's made a mock, and all
Good wayes, as Works, Apocryphal:
Our Gallants baffel'd, slaves made Peers,
While Oxford, weeps for Cavaleers, &c.
5
Townsmen complain, they are undone,
Their Fortunes faile, and all is gone,
Rope makers, only live in hopes,
To have good trading, for their Ropes,
And Glovers thrive, by Round-heads Ears,
When Charles returns, with's Cavaleers, Cavaleers.
