The Cavaliers Complaint.  
To the Tune of, I tell Thee DICK, etc.  

The Cavaleers Complaint.  

COme Jack, let's drink a Pot of Ale,  
And I shall tell Thee such a Tale  
Will make thine Ears to ring:  
My Coin is spent, my Time is lost,  
And I this Only Fruit can boast,  
That Once I saw my KING.   

But This doth most afflict my mind,  
I went to Court, in hope to find  
Some of my Friends in Place;  
And walking There, I had a fight  
Of all the Crew: But, by this Light,  
I hardly knew One Face!   

'Slife, of so many Noble Sparks,  
Who, on their Bodies, bear the Marks  
Of their Integrity,  
And suffered Ruin of Estate;  
It was my damned unhappy Fate,  
That I not One could see!   

Not One, upon my Life, among  
〈…〉  
And 〈…〉  
As few of Those, whom Thou didst know  
As York, or Marston-moore.   

But, truly, There are swarms of Those,  
Who lately were our chiefest Foes,  
Of Pantaloons and Muffs;  
Whilst the old runsty Cavalier  
Retires, or dares not once appear  
For want of Coin, and Cuffs.   

When none of These I could descry,  
Who, better far deserved; Then I  
Calmly did reflect;  
Old Services, (by Rule of State)  
Like Almtnacks, grow out of Date,  
What then can I expect?   

Troth, In contempt of Fortune's frown,  
I'll get me fairly out of Town,  
And, in a Cloister, pray,  
That, since the Stars are yet unkind  
To Royalists, the King may find  
More Faithful Friends than They.    

An Echo to the Cavaliers Complaint.  

I Marvel Dick, That having been  
So long abroad, and having seen  
The World, as Thou hast done,  
Thou shouldst acquaint Me with a Tale  
As old as Nestor, and as stale  
As That of Priest and Nun!   

Are We to learn what is a Court?  
A Pageant, made for Fortune's sport,  
Where Merits scarce appear:  
For bashful Merit only dwelis  
In Camps, in Villages, and Cells;  
Alas! it dwells not There.   

Desert is nice in its Address,  
And Merit oftimes doth oppress  
Beyond what Gild would do:  
But They are sure of Their Demands,  
That come to Court with Golden-hands  
And Brazen-faces too.   

The King, They say, doth still professs  
And cheri●● 〈◊〉  
But His good Wishes prove in vain,  
Whose Service, with His Servants gain,  
Not always doth agree.   

All Princes, (be They ne'er so wise)  
Are fain to see with Others Eyes,  
But, seldom hear at all;  
And Courtiers find Their interest,  
In Time to feather well Their Nest,  
Providing for Their Fall.   

Our Comfort doth on Time depend;  
Things, when They are at worst, will mend.  
And let Us but reflect  
On our Condition th'other Day,  
When None but Tyrants bore the sway,  
What did We Then expect?   

Mean while, a calm Retreat is best:  
But Discontent, (if not suppressed)  
Will breed Disloyalty.  
This is the constant Note I sing,  
I have been Faithful to the KING,  
And so shall ever be.    

LONDON, Printed for Robert Crofts at the CROWN in Chancery lane. 1660