The Phanseys of William Cavendish Marquis of Newcastle addressed to Margaret Lucas and her Letters in reply: Edited by Douglas Grant |
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| 58. | 58 A Songe
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 | The Phanseys of William Cavendish Marquis of Newcastle |  |
75
58
A Songe
[Sweet harte, we are beggers; our Comfort's, t'is seene]
Sweet harte, we are beggers; our Comfort's, t'is seene,
That we are Undunne for the Kinge and the Queene;
Which doth make Us rejoyce, with Royall braggs,
That now we doe foote it with Royall raggs.
Wee can not borrow, nor take Up of Trust,
So water wee'le drinke, and bite a hard Cruste:
Lett Care goe kill Catts, what Comfort's in Sorrow?
Therfore lett to Morrow care for to Morrow.
That we are Undunne for the Kinge and the Queene;
Which doth make Us rejoyce, with Royall braggs,
That now we doe foote it with Royall raggs.
Wee can not borrow, nor take Up of Trust,
So water wee'le drinke, and bite a hard Cruste:
Lett Care goe kill Catts, what Comfort's in Sorrow?
Therfore lett to Morrow care for to Morrow.
In a Gray Morning's dew thy Coates thou wilt dagg,
Whilst thou bearest the bottle and I beare the bagg;
And then when the wether growes cold and rawe,
Wee'l in to the Barne and Tumble in Straw;
And when the Springe on our love setts an Edge,
Wee'l kisse and wee'l play Under Evry Hedge:
Though Nothinge we have, yett nothing we lack;
A Staffe in your hand, A Child att your back.
Whilst thou bearest the bottle and I beare the bagg;
And then when the wether growes cold and rawe,
Wee'l in to the Barne and Tumble in Straw;
And when the Springe on our love setts an Edge,
Wee'l kisse and wee'l play Under Evry Hedge:
Though Nothinge we have, yett nothing we lack;
A Staffe in your hand, A Child att your back.
This Diett will make Us both looke pale and wanne.
Your Hatt band of Inkle, and buttermilke Canne;
Or for a doale att a great man's gate Sitt,
Expectinge the Porter, your Stockings ther knitt;
Whil'st his Inrag'd black staffe ther some rapps,
Bee thou then busie in stealinge of Scrapps:
And when our Olio of Alme's tubb is cleere,
Our hands be our Cupps, the river our beere.
Your Hatt band of Inkle, and buttermilke Canne;
Or for a doale att a great man's gate Sitt,
76
Whil'st his Inrag'd black staffe ther some rapps,
Bee thou then busie in stealinge of Scrapps:
And when our Olio of Alme's tubb is cleere,
Our hands be our Cupps, the river our beere.
For all these blessings lett's Merrily singe:
Give God the Prayse, and to Charles our brave Kinge.
Give God the Prayse, and to Charles our brave Kinge.
| The Phanseys of William Cavendish Marquis of Newcastle | |