(Made in the late times.)
From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society, and
edited by J. O. Halliwell.
FAIR Phydelia, tempt no more,
I may not now thy beauty so adore,
Nor offer to thy shrine;
I serve one more divine
And greater far than you:
Hark! the trumpet calls away,
We must go, lest the foe
Get the field and win the day;
Then march bravely on,
Charge them in the van,
Our cause God’s is, though the odds is
Ten times ten to one.
Tempt no more, I may not yield,
Although thine eyes a kingdom may surprise;
Leave off thy wanton tales,
The high-born Prince of Wales
Is mounted in the field,
Where the loyal gentry flock,
Though forlorn, nobly born,
Of a ne’er-decaying stock;
Cavaliers, be bold, ne’er let go your hold,
Those that loiters are by traitors
Dearly bought and sold.
_Phydelia_.—One kiss more, and so farewell.
_Soldier_.—Fie, no more! I prithee fool give o’er;
Why cloud’st thou thus thy beams?
I see by these extremes,
A woman’s heaven or hell.
Pray the King may have his own,
That the Queen may be seen
With her babes on England’s throne;
Rally up your men, one shall vanquish ten,
Victory, we come to try our valour once again.