Love and Honesty OR, The Modish Courtier.  
What's here to do? a pretty Modish song  
turned to a Ballad? in troth I think e're long,  
A fourth part of the Town will Poets be,  
If that a line of Wit they can but see:  
They must be meddling and add further still,  
And never leave till all that's sense they kill:  
Yet if I judge aright, the vulgar sort  
Are mightily beholding to them for't.  
To a pleasant new Tune, called, The Duke of Monmouth's Jigg. With Allowance, Ro. L'Estrange. Feb. 8. 1676.  
 two men, one offering someting (a chalice?) to the other  a man  

A Curse on the zealous and ignorant crew,  
Who languish all day,  
And with passion obey,  
The senseless decrees that Platonicks pursue.  
How poor and unhappy;  
unhappy are those pretenders,  
Who fearful of scandal and vulgarly shane,  
Diminish their flamme.   

But blessed be the man who with freedom enjoys,  
A Beauty whose Eyes,  
Like the Stars in the Sky,  
Procures new delight till his appetite cloys.  
How happy unhappy,  
How happy are those pretenders,  
Who fearless of scandal or vulgar reproach,  
Pursue their debauch.   

Elizium's a grief and a torment, compared  
To those that can prove,  
The enjoyment of Love,  
●●●re Lovers in raptures do meet a reward.  
The tales of the ancients,  
Of elysian fields are ungrounded,  
In Loves kind fruition where souls have access,  
Oh there's the true bliss.   

Those conquering beauties more pleasure afford,  
To such as are free,  
At their own liberty,  
Then usurers Chests which with plenty are stored.  
Then happy be still,  
Noble Lads that are natures adorers,  
Whilst envy and avarice starve and repined,  
We'l frolic in Wine.   
 portrait of a man surrounded by flowers  portrait of a woman surrounded by flowers  

Those that the confinement of Wedlock refuse,  
May live at their ease,  
And enjoy when they please,  
Being free from the strict matrimonial noose.  
The bawling of brats,  
Shall not injure his rest nor his quiet,  
But when with delights his fierce appetite's cloyed,  
Then rest is enjoyed.   

No wonder why clowns who of sense are debarred,  
Remain till they die,  
Like a Hog in a sty,  
And ne'er understand a brisk Lovers reward.  
'tis those that have souls,  
Of the modish new slamp that are witty,  
All others are drudges and never are blessed,  
Till death gives them rest.   

'tis Love that does give us true sense of our life,  
And makes us proceeed,  
In each generous dead,  
Protected with love, or are freed from all strife.  
But those that ne'er knew,  
The delights of an amorous Lover.  
Can't truly be said to have lived out an hour,  
If freeed from Loves power.   

Those that for abundance do match with a wife,  
Are troubled with an itch,  
To be wealthy and rich,  
Which keeps them in torment all days of their life.  
They never enjoy,  
But still grumble at every misfortune,  
Whilst wisdom creates in a generous mind,  
joys they cannot find.   

God Cupid for ever thy name I'll adore,  
For now I can see,  
That in thy Deity,  
Are blessings( for those that deserve them) in store.  
A passion that's noble,  
Shall ever receive satisfaction,  
But ignorant fools who abandon thy name,  
Extinguish their flamme.   

In liberty all men have cause to rejoice,  
If mingled with Love,  
Ever happy 'twill prove,  
What fops do count folly, we think our best choice.  
A cup of the creature,  
Will make our bloods warmer and warmer,  
Like senseless Fanaticks we'l never repined,  
Of Love and good Wine.    

Printed for E. Oliver, at the Golden-Key, on Snow-hill, over-a-gainst St. Sepulchres-Church.