 | A royal arbor (1663) |  |
12
The Leaguer.
1
Joyn thy ennamel'd cheek to mine,I'le bring thee where is rasie Wine,
And where a loving Leaguer's kept,
Where many tankard tears are wept
For the Cash
That is gone, that is here,
Joy and grief in a tear
We will wash:
There we study Revenges,
Make Plots without hinges,
More Black then the fifth of Novembers;
In our Pipe and our Cup
Our Estates are rak'd up,
Till our eyes twinkle like to the embers.
2
There with a sack-incensed face,In speckled state and flaming grace,
With dabbled doublet doth appear
The curral front of Cavalier,
With a bowle
Full of sack, such as can
In the most dying man
Raise a soul;
And forbids any venter,
The Leaguer to enter,
Or near it commit such a trespass,
13
With the blood of the Vine,
And his Nostrils appear like a Respass.
3
In Fletcher's Wit, and Johnson's styleThere will we sit and fret a while,
Cursing the puddle of their brains,
That pull'd down grapes, and put up grains;
They are foes,
Who Bagpipes for Shalmes
Deal in small Bear and Psalmes
Through the Nose:
May want of drink grieve'm,
And no man relieve'm,
Till scorching inform them what hell is,
May Houndsditch and Towerditch,
With Moorditch and Shoreditch,
Be emptied to fill up their bellies.
4
May all the ills that can be thoughtEither too heavy or too hot
Light on his belly and his back,
That envies us the joyes of Sack;
Let him dye,
Or let him live with so much strife,
That he may beg to lose his life,
'Till he cry,
Good-fellows forgive me,
If you dare believe me,
By the soul and the sword of a Lay-man;
14
And set up the Vineyard,
In spight of the Devil and Dray-man.
| A royal arbor (1663) | |