The king (God bless him!) had singular hopes
Of him and all his troop-a:

The borderers they, as they met him on the way,
For joy did hollow, and whoop-a.

None lik'd him so well, as his own colonell,
Who took him for John de Wert-a ;1

But when there were shows of gunning and blows,
My gallant was nothing so pert-a.

For when the Scots army came within sight,
And all prepared to fight-a,

He ran to his tent, they ask'd what he meant,

He swore he must needs goe sh*te-a.

The colonell sent for him back agen,

To quarter him in the van-a,

But Sir John did swear, he would not come there,
To be kill'd the very first man-a.

To cure his fear, he was sent to the reare,
Some ten miles back, and more-a;
Where Sir John did play at trip and away,
And ne'er saw the enemy more-a.

TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON.

FROM "Lucasta," a collection of Poems by Richard Lovelace, [b. 1618, d. 1658], whom the House of Commons committed to the Gate-house, Westminster, April, 1642, for presenting a petition in favour of the King's restoration to his authority. "In 1646 he formed a regiment for the service of the French king, was colonel of it, and was wounded at Dunkirk. On this occasion his mistress, Lucasta, a Miss Lucy Sacheverell, married another, hearing that he had died of his wounds."

WHEN love with unconfinèd wings

Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates;

1 John De Wert was a German general of great reputation, and the terror of the French in the reign of Louis XIII.: hence his name became proverbial in France, where he was called De Vert.

TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON.

When I lye tangled in her haire,
And fetter'd with her eye,

The birds that wanton in the aire,
Know no such libertye.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,1

Our carelesse heads with roses crown'd,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe,
When healths and draughts goe free,
Fishes, that tipple in the deepe,
Know no such libertie.

When, linnet-like, confinèd I

With shriller note shall sing The mercye, sweetness, majestye, And glories of my king;

When I shall voyce aloud how good

He is, how great should be,

Th' enlarged windes, that curle the flood, Know no such libertie.

Stone walls doe not a prison make,
Nor iron barres a cage;
Mindes, innocent and quiet, take
That for an hermitage:
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soule am free,
Angels alone, that soare above,
Enjoy such libertie.

1 Thames is here used for water in general.

THE DOWNFALL OF CHARING-CROSS.

CHARING CROSS, as it stood before the Civil Wars, was one of those beautiful Gothic obelisks erected by Edward I. to mark every place where the hearse of his beloved Eleanor rested in its way from Lincolnshire to Westminster. Its demolition in 1647, by order of the

The plot, noticed
It was to reduce

House of Commons, occasioned the following sarcasm.
in verse 17, was that of Waller the poet, and others.
the city and tower to the service of the king; for which two of the
conspirators, Nathaniel Tomkins and Richard Chaloner, suffered death,
July 5, 1642.

UNDONE, undone, the lawyers are;
They wander about the towne;
Nor can find the way to Westminster,

Now Charing-cross is downe:

At the end of the Strand they make a stand,

Swearing they are at a loss,

And chaffing say, that's not the way
They must go by Charing-cross.

The Parliament to vote it down
Conceived it very fitting,

For fear it should fall, and kill them all,
In the house, as they were sitting.
They were told, god-wot, it had a plot,
Which made them so hard-hearted,
To give command, it should not stand,
But be taken down and carted.

Men talk of plots; this might have been worse
For any thing I know,

Than that Tomkins and Chaloner
Were hang'd for long agoe.
Our Parliament did that prevent,
And wisely them defended;
For plots they will discover still,
Before they were intended.

But neither man, woman, nor child,
Will say, I'm confident,

They ever heard it speak one word
Against the Parliament.

An informer swore, it letters bore,
Or else it had been freed;
I'll take, in troth, my Bible oath,
It could neither write nor read.

The committee said, that verily
To popery it was bent;

For ought I know, it might be so,
For to church it never went.
What with excise, and such device,
The kingdom doth begin

To think you'll leave them ne'er a cross,
Without doors nor within.

Methinks the common-council shou'd
Of it have taken pity,

'Cause, good old cross, it always stood
So firmly to the city.

Since crosses you so much disdain,
Faith, if I were as you,

For fear the king should rule again,
I'd pull down Tiburn too.

LOYALTY CONFINED.

WRITTEN, according to tradition, by Sir Roger L'Estrange, who died December 11, 1704, aged eighty-eight. He was the Court pamphleteer, pert, affected, and clever. But this Song is in a purer vein.

BEAT on, proud billows; Boreas blow;

Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof;

Your incivility doth show,

That innocence is tempest proof;

Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm ; Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm.

That which the world miscalls a jail,

A private closet is to me :
Whilst a good conscience is my bail,
And innocence my liberty:

Locks, bars, and solitude, together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

I, whilst I wisht to be retir'd,
Into this private room was turn'd;
As if their wisdoms had conspir'd

The salamander should be burn'd;
Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish,
I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish.

The cynick loves his poverty;

The pelican her wilderness;
And 'tis the Indian's pride to be
Naked on frozen Caucasus :
Contentment cannot smart Stoicks, we see ;
Make torments easie to their apathy.

These manacles upon my arm

I, as my mistress' favours, wear;
And for to keep my ancles warm,

I have some iron shackles there:
These walls are but my garrison; this cell,
Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel.

I'm in the cabinet lockt up,

Like some high-prized margarite,1
Or, like the Great Mogul or Pope,

Am cloyster'd up from publick sight:
Retiredness is a piece of majesty,

And thus proud sultan, I'm as great as thee.

Here sin for want of food must starve,
Where tempting objects are not seen;
And these strong walls do only serve
To keep vice out, and keep me in:
Malice of late's grown charitable sure.
I'm not committed, but am kept secure.

So he that struck at Jason's life,"
Thinking t' have made his purpose sure,
By a malicious friendly knife

Did only wound him to a cure:

Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant
Mischief, oft-times proves favour by th' event.

When once my prince affliction hath,
Prosperity doth treason seem;
And to make smooth so rough a path,
I can learn patience from him:

Now not to suffer shews no loyal heart,

When kings want ease subjects must bear a part.

1 Margarite-a pearl.

2 See this remarkable story in Cicero de Nat. Deorum, lib. iii. c. 28; Cic. de Offic. lib. i. c. 30: see also Val. Max. i. 8.