'Tis the course of the royal delinquent;
You love to see beer-bowls turn'd over the thumb well,
You like three fair gamesters, four dice, and a drum well,
But you'd as lief see the devil as Fairfax or Cromwell.

Drink, drink not the round,
You'll be drown'd
In the source of your sack and your sonnets;
Try once more your fate
For the King against the State,
And go barter your beavers for bonnets.
You see how they're charm'd by the King's enchanters,
And therefore pack hence to Virginia for planters,
For an act and two red-coats will rout all the ranters.


THE ANSWER


By Alex. Brome.

Stay, stay, prate no more,
Lest thy brain, like thy purse, run the score,
Though thou strain'st it;
Those are traitors in grain
That of sack do complain,
And rail by its own power against it.
Those kingdoms and crowns which your poetry pities,
Are fall'n by the pride and hypocrisy of cities,
And not by those brains that love sack and good ditties;