The Soldiers Fortune: OR The Taking of MARDIKE.  
 

Mardike.   

When first Mardike was made a Prey,  
'Twas Courage that carried the Fort away;  
Then do not lose your Valour's Prize,  
By gazing on your Mistress Eyes;  
But put off your Petticoat-Parley;  
Dotting and sotting, & laughing and quaffing Canary,  
Will make a good Soldier miscarry,   

And never Travel for true Renown:  
Then turn to your Martial Mistress,  
Fair Minerva the Soldier's Sister is;  
Rallying & sallying, with gashing & slashing of Wounds, Sir,  
With turning and burning of Towns, Sir,   

Is a high step to a great Man's Throne.  
Let bold Bellona's Brewer frown,  
And his Tun shall overflow the Town;  
And give the Cobbler Sword and Fate,  
And a Tinker may trappan the State:  
Such fortunate Foes as these be,  
Turned the Crown to a Cross at Naseby:  
Father and Mother, and Sister & Brother confounded,  
And many a good Family wounded   

By a terrible turn of Fate.  
He that can kill a Man, thunder and plunder the town, sir,  
And pull his Enemies down, Sir,  
In time may be an Officer great,   

It is the Sword does order all,  
Makes Peasants rise, and Princes fall;  
All Syllogisms in vain are spilt,  
No Logic like a Basket-Hilt;   

It handles 'em joint by joint Sir;  
Quilling & drilling, and spilling and killing profoundly,  
Until the Disputers on Ground lie,  
And have never a word to say:   

Unless it be quarter, quarter, truth is confuted by a Carter,  
By stripping & nipping, & ripping and quipping Evasions,  
Doth Conquer a power of Persuasions,  
Aristotle hath lost the Day.   

The Musket hears so great a Force,  
To Learning it has no remorse;  
The Priest, the Layman, and the Lord,  
Find no distinction from the Sword;  
Tantarra, Tantarra, the Trumpet,  
Has blown away Babylon's Strumpet:   

Now the Walls begin to crack,  
The Counsellors are struck dumb too,  
By the Parchment upon the Drum too;  
Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, an Alarm,  
Each Corporal now can outdare'um,  
Learned Littleton goes to rack.   

Then since the Sword so bright doth shine,  
We'll leave our Wenches and our Wine,  
And follow Mars where ere he runs,  
And turn our Pots and Pipes to Guns:  
The Bottles shall be Granades,  
We'll bounce about the Bravadoes,  
By huffing and puffing, and snuffing and cuffing the French Boys,  
Whose Brows has been died in a Trench Boys;   

Well got Fame is a Warrier's Wife,  
The Drawer shall be the Drummer;  
We'll be Colonels all next Summer;  
By hilting and tilting, and pointing and jointing like brave Boys,  
We shall have Gold, or a Grave Boys,  
And there's an end of a Soldiers Life.   
FINIS.   

Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden Ball in Pie-corner.