The Royalist

COME, pass about the bowl to me,

A health to our distressëd king!

Though we're in hold, let cups go free,

Birds in a cage may freely sing.

The ground does tipple healths apace

When storms do fall, and shall not we?

A sorrow dares not show his face

When we are ships, and sack's the sea.

Pox on this grief, hang wealth, let's sing!

Shall's kill ourselves for fear of death?

We'll live by th' air which songs do bring;

Our sighing does but waste our breath.

Then let us not be discontent,

Nor drink a glass the less of wine;

In vain they'll think their plagues are spent,

When once they see we don't repine.

We do not suffer here alone;

Though we are beggared, so's the king.

'Tis sin t' have wealth when he has none;

Tush! poverty's a royal thing!

When we are larded well with drink,

Our heads shall turn as round as theirs;

Our feet shall rise, our bodies sink

Clean down the wind, like cavaliers.

Fill this unnatural quart with sack,

Nature all vacuums doth decline;

Our selves will be a zodiac,

And every mouth shall be a sign.

Methinks the travels of the glass

Are circular, like Plato's year,

Where everything is as it was,

Let's tipple round, and so 'tis here.

Alexander Brome

For General Monk, his entertainment at Clothworkers' Hall

RING, bells! and let bonfires outblaze the sun!

Let echoes contribute their voices!

Since now a happy settlement's begun,

Let all things tell how all good men rejoice.

       If these sad lands by this

       Can but obtain the bliss

Of their desired, though abusëd peace,

       We'll never, nevermore

       Run mad, as we've heretofore,

To buy our ruin, but all strife shall cease.

The cobbler shall edify us no more,

Nor shall in divinity set any stitches,

The women we will no more hear and adore,

That preach with their husbands for the breeches.

       The fanatical tribe

       That will not subscribe

To the orders of church and of state,

       Shall be smothered with the zeal

       Of their new commonweal,

And no man will mind what they prate.

          Chorus.

We'll eat and we'll drink, we'll dance and we'll sing,

The Roundheads and Cavs, no more shall be named;

But all join together to made up the ring,

And rejoice that the many-headed dragon is tamed.

'Tis friendship and love that can save us and arm us,

And while we all agree, there is nothing can harm us.

Alexander Brome

The Mad Lover

I HAVE been in love, and in debt, and in drink,

This many and many a year;

And those three are plagues enough, one would think,

For one poor mortal to bear.

'Twas drink made me fall in love,

And love made me run into debt,

And though I have struggled and struggled and strove,

I cannot get out of them yet.

There's nothing but money can cure me,

       And rid me of all my pain;

             'Twill pay all my debts,

             And remove all my lets,

And my mistress, that cannot endure me,

       Will love me and love me again,--

Then I'll fall to loving and drinking amain.

Alexander Brome

The Resolve

TELL me not of a face that's fair,

  Nor lip and cheek that's red,

Nor of the tresses of her hair,

  Nor curls in order laid;

Nor of a rare seraphic voice,

  That like an angel sings;

Though if I were to take my choice,

  I would have all these things.

But if thou wilt have me love

  And it must be a she,

The only argument can move

 & Is, that she will love me.

The glories of your ladies be

  But metaphors of things;

And but resemble what we see

  Each common object brings.

Roses out-red their lips and cheeks,

  Lilies their whiteness stain;

What fool is he that shadows seeks

  And may the substance gain?

Then if thou'lt have me love a lass,

  Let it be one that's kind,

Else I'm a servant to the glass,

  That's with Canary* lined.          [variety of wine]

Alexander Brome

Courtship

MY Lesbia, let us live and love,

  Let crabbed Age talk what it will.

The sun when down, returns above,

  But we, once dead, must be so still.

Kiss me a thousand times, and then

  Give me a hundred kisses more,

Now kiss a thousand times again,

  Then t'other hundred as before.

Come, a third thousand, and to those,

  Another hundred kisses fix;

That done, to make the sweeter close,

  We'll millions of kisses mix.

And huddle them together so,

  That we ourselves shan't know how many,

And others can't their number know,

  If we should envied be by any.

And then, when we have done all this,

  That our pleasures may remain,

We'll continue on our bliss,

  By unkissing all again.

Thus we'll love, and thus we'll live,

  While our posting minutes fly,

We'll have no time to vex or grieve,

  But kiss and unkiss till we die.

Alexander Brome

To a Painted Lady

LEAVE these deluding tricks and shows,

  Be honest and downright;

What Nature did to view expose,

  Don't you keep out of sight.

The novice youth may chance admire

  Your dressings, paints and spells;

But we that are expert desire

  Your sex for somewhat else.

In your adored face and hair,

  What virtue could you find,

If women were like angels fair,

  And every man were blind?

You need no pains or time to waste

  To set your beauties forth,

With oils, and paint, and drugs, that cost

  More than the face is worth.

Nature her self, her own work does

  And hates all needless arts,

And all your artificial shows

  Disgrace your nat'ral parts.

You're flesh and blood and so are we,

  Let flesh and blood alone,

To love all compounds hateful be:

Give me the pure, or none.

Alexander Brome

The Anti-Politician

COME leave thy care, and love thy friend;

  Live freely, don't despair,

Of getting money there's no end,

  And keeping it breeds care.

If thou hast money at thy need,

  Good company, and good wine,

His life, whose joys on wealth do feed,

  's not half so sweet as thine.

I can enjoy myself and friends,

  Without design or fear,

Below their envy, or base ends,

  That politicians are.

I neither toil, nor care, nor grieve,

  To gather, keep, or lose;

With freedom and content I live,

  And what's my own I use.

While men blown on with strong desires

  Of riches or renown,

Though ne'er so high, would be still higher,

  So tumble headlong down.

For princes' smiles turn oft to frowns,

  And favours fade each hour;

He that to day heaps towns on towns,

  To morrow's clapped i'th'Tower.

All that we get by all our store,

  's but honour or dominion;

The one's but trouble varnished o'er,

  And t'other's but opinion.

Fate rules the roost, times always change;

  'Tis fancy builds all things;

How madly then our minds do range,

  Since all we grasp hath wings.

Those empty terms of rich and poor,

  Comparison hath framed;

He hath not much that covets more,

  Want is but will, nicknamed.

If I can safely think and live,

  And freely laugh or sing,

My wealth I'll not for Croesus give,

  Nor change lives with a king.

Alexander Brome

To His Friend J. H.

IF thou canst fashion no excuse,

To stay at home, as 'tis thy use,

  When I do send for thee,

Let neither sickness, way, nor rain,

With fond delusions thee detain,

  But come thy way to me.

Hang such a sickness, that has power,

To seize on thee at such an hour,

  When thou should'st take thy pleasure;

Go give thy doctor half a fee,

That it may never trouble thee,

  Until thou art at leisure.

We have a cup of cider here,

That scorns that common strumpet, beer,

  And such dull drinks as they're.

Their potions made of hops and malt,

Can only make our fancies halt,

  This makes them quick as air.

Cere with Bacchus dares compare,

And swears her fruits the liquor are,

  That poets so implore:

A sip of sack may work a verse,

But he that drinks a bowl of hers,

  Shall thunder out a score.

To morrow morning come away,

Friday we'll vote a happy day,

  In spite of Erra Pater*;          [Adam's error]

And bring with you a spark or twain,

Such as will drink, and drink again,

  To treat about the matter.

Alexander Brome