 | The works of Sr William Davenant
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In celebration of the yearly Preserver of the Games Costwald.
Hear me you Men of strife! you that have bin,
Long time maintain'd by the dull Peoples sin.
At Lyon's, Furnifold's, and Clement's Inne!
With huge, o're-comming Mutton, Target-Cheese,
Beefe, that the queasie stomack'd Guard would please,
And limber Groats, full half a Score for Fees.
Hear you Grown'd Lackeys that on both sides plead;
Whose hollow Teeth, are stuff'd with others Bread;
Whose Tongues will live (sure) when your selves are dead.
Hear you Alcaldos, whose sterne faces look,
Worse than our Pris'ner's that's deny'd his Book;
Than Pilat painted like Sir Edward Cook.
List all that toyle for pow'r to do Men wrong,
With pensive Eare, to my prophetick Song!
Whose Magick sayes, your Triumphs hold not long.
The time is come, you on your selves shall sit;
Whilst Children finde (if they endeavour it)
Your learning, Chronicle; Clinches your Wit.
Ere you a Year are dead, your Sones shall watch,
And roare all night with Ale in house of Thatch;
And speed, 'till Swords are worn in Belts of Match.
Whilst Dover (that his knowledge not imploy's
T' increase his Neighbours Quarrels, but their Joyes)
Shall in his age; get Money, Girles, and Boyes!
Money at Cotswald Games shall early fly;
Whilst the Precise, and envious shall stand by,
And see his Min'ral Fountain never dry.
His Girles, shall dowr-less wed with Heirs of birth;
His Boyes, plough London Widows up like earth;
Whilst Potswald Bards Cartol their Nuptial Mirth!
Dover (the Gentr'ys Darling) know this flame,
Is but a willing tribute to thy Fame,
Sung by a Poet, that conceals his name.
| The works of Sr William Davenant
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