My Far-well to the Court
My Far-well to the Court — March-25-1644 at Marworth
Goe (fond deluder of our sences) find
Some other Objects henceforth, to make blind
With that thy glittering Folly; for noe more
I will be dazled with thy falser ore
Nor shall thy Cyren-songes enchant, to tast
Or smell or Touch those sorceries thou hast.
But I will strive first in my self to be
Soe much myn Owne, as not to flatter thee
And then my Cuntries, for whose wellfare still
My native thoughts, prompt to impress my will
And that, drawes Action forth wher'by to showe
To whom, and what, and when, and wher I owe
Not as this Nod, or beck, or winke, or glance
Would dictate and imply to follow chance
Fortune, or Favours ever-turning-wheel
But to be firme and Constant, backt with steel
And resolution, for to guive the True
God what is his, and Cesar tribute due
And that in Season too, for time and place
As th'one requiers, and th'other affords, grace,
Not such as only from vain Titles springes
And turnes to bubble to Court Prince or Kinges
With faignd applauses of what ere they speak
Or doe, bee't near soe frothy, faint, or weak
But what is clad in Truth and dares not lie
Though all the world should turne its Enemy
Brand it for want of Breeding and conclude
Because it not disembles therfore 'ts rude
Those dancing dayes are done, nor longer sute
My disposition to the Harp, or Lute
Horne-pipe or other Instruments have been
The Commonwealth's diseas, ore swoln Her spleen:
Jocky and Jinny footing may appeer
Most Trim at the next wake in Darbisheer
Gotier sayle from the Clouds to catch our ears
And represent the harmony o'th'Sphears
Will Lause excell the Dying Swan: Laneer
Nick it with ravishments from touch of Lyre
Yet uncontrowld by these, I safely may
Survive, sithence not stung by th'Tarantula
That tickling Beast — Ambition that makes sport
In our hott Climat Calld the verge of Court.
And soe resolve, dressing my mindes content
Hence-forward to be Calme and represent,
Nothing but what my Berth and Calling drawe
My Purse out for my God, my King, my Lawe
And when for These my wearied breath is spent
Let with my Last-bloods-drop one sigh be sent.
Goe (fond deluder of our sences) find
Some other Objects henceforth, to make blind
With that thy glittering Folly; for noe more
I will be dazled with thy falser ore
Nor shall thy Cyren-songes enchant, to tast
Or smell or Touch those sorceries thou hast.
But I will strive first in my self to be
Soe much myn Owne, as not to flatter thee
And then my Cuntries, for whose wellfare still
My native thoughts, prompt to impress my will
And that, drawes Action forth wher'by to showe
To whom, and what, and when, and wher I owe
Not as this Nod, or beck, or winke, or glance
Would dictate and imply to follow chance
Fortune, or Favours ever-turning-wheel
But to be firme and Constant, backt with steel
And resolution, for to guive the True
God what is his, and Cesar tribute due
And that in Season too, for time and place
As th'one requiers, and th'other affords, grace,
Not such as only from vain Titles springes
And turnes to bubble to Court Prince or Kinges
With faignd applauses of what ere they speak
Or doe, bee't near soe frothy, faint, or weak
But what is clad in Truth and dares not lie
Though all the world should turne its Enemy
Brand it for want of Breeding and conclude
Because it not disembles therfore 'ts rude
Those dancing dayes are done, nor longer sute
My disposition to the Harp, or Lute
Horne-pipe or other Instruments have been
The Commonwealth's diseas, ore swoln Her spleen:
Jocky and Jinny footing may appeer
Most Trim at the next wake in Darbisheer
Gotier sayle from the Clouds to catch our ears
And represent the harmony o'th'Sphears
Will Lause excell the Dying Swan: Laneer
Nick it with ravishments from touch of Lyre
Yet uncontrowld by these, I safely may
Survive, sithence not stung by th'Tarantula
That tickling Beast — Ambition that makes sport
In our hott Climat Calld the verge of Court.
And soe resolve, dressing my mindes content
Hence-forward to be Calme and represent,
Nothing but what my Berth and Calling drawe
My Purse out for my God, my King, my Lawe
And when for These my wearied breath is spent
Let with my Last-bloods-drop one sigh be sent.
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