Thou Man of Men, who e’re thou art,
That hast a Loyal, Royal Heart,
Despair not! though thy Fortune frown
Our Cause, is Gods, and not our Own;
’Twere sin, to harbour Jealous fears,
The World laments, for Cavaliers, Cavaliers.
Those Things (like Men) that swarm, ith’ Town
Like Motions, wander up, and down;
And were the Rogues, not full of blood,
You’d swear, they men were, made of wood:
The Fellow-feeling-wanton swears,
There are no Men, but Cavaliers, &c.
Ladies, be pearl, their Diamond Eyes,
And curse, Dame Shipton’s Prophecyes
Fearing they never shall be sped,
To wrestle, for a Maiden-head:
But feelingly, with doleful tears,
They sigh, and mourn for Cavaliers, &c.
Our grave Divines, are silenced quite.
Eclipsing thus, our Churches Light:
Religion’s made a mock, and all
Good ways, as Works, Apocryphal:
Our Gallants baffled, slaves made Peers,
While Oxford, weeps for Cavaliers, &c.
Townsmen complain, they are undone,
Their Fortunes fail, and all is gone,
Rope makers, only live in hopes,
To have good trading, for their Ropes,
And Glovers thrive, by Round-heads Ears,
When Charles returns, with’s Cavaliers, Cavaliers.
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