The soldiers sad Complaint.  
IS this the upshot then? We that have spent  
Our best of Fortunes for a PARLIAMENT?  
We that have sweat in blood, Marched o'er the Land,  
And where our feet did tread, our Swords command?  
We that like burning Comets did appear,  
Striking astonishment with pallid fear,  
Upon the daring aspect of our Foes,  
Forcing even Death, under our dreadful blows  
To flag his fatal Standard? We that have  
Been (as of Banquets) greedy of a grave?  
When through the riulets of our purple gore  
Flowed streams of Victory unto the door  
Of our high palmed STATE, made God's: no less;  
And only happy through our wretchedness.  
When in our calmed postures we draw near  
Creeping addresses to that Lofty sphere  
In naked Bodies, broken legs, and arms,  
In carved Limbs, which were ere while as charms  
To quiet Death, and make the Furies hushed,  
That we should suffer? that we should be crushed  
With those iron hands (though guilded with our blood,  
Not seeking others, but their own self-good)  
We have upheld? when we make humble plea  
With empty entrails, for our dear earned pay,  
(Whilst your enlarded guts, and brawny sides  
Swine it with Epicurus, stretch your hides  
With glorry morsels) are we kicked away,  
As if each Wight had turned Apostata?  
Is this true valours' pay? coined out of air  
And envy? Tyranny? that doth outdare  
The very front of Hell. What, soldiers? and thus slighted?  
The best of actions are the worst requited.  
'Tis thought, and feared, your eyes that pity want,  
Ere long will turn the world all Adamant:  
And every object by reflection,  
Be turned into, what you are, a Stone;  
Should but your curious, wanton palates share  
As formerly our Fortunes, now our fare,  
(Who once lay lugging at that Lady's pap  
As full of plenty then, as now, mishap)  
A two days sad experience, would condemn  
Your great ingratitude; make you contemn  
Your cruelties; and bring home to your Gate  
As much of love, as hitherto of hate.  
Who gave your senate being? the laws their breath?  
Was't not our blood? our hazarding of death?  
And will you counsel murder? sit to slay  
Even those by whom you sit, or whom, you stay?  
From your full stores, then reach unto poor souls,  
Of what's their due: Necessity controls  
The sharpest laws. Oh hear their groans and cries  
Who hapless lives, and as yet hopeless dies.  
Per I. H.  
FINIS.