The New Courtier

By Alex. Brome. 1648.

               Since it must be so
               Then so let it go,
Let the giddy-brain’d times turn round;
Since we have no king let the goblet be crown’d,
   Our monarchy thus will recover:
      While the pottles are weeping
               We’ll drench our sad souls
               In big-bellied bowls;
      Our sorrows in sack shall lie steeping,
   And we’ll drink till our eyes do run over;
               And prove it by reason
               That it can be no treason
To drink and to sing
A mournival of healths to our new-crown’d King.

               Let us all stand bare;—
               In the presence we are,
Let our noses like bonfires shine;
Instead of the conduits, let the pottles run wine,
   To perfect this new coronation;
      And we that are loyal
               In drink shall be peers,
               While that face that wears
      Pure claret, looks like the blood-royal,
   And outstares the bones of the nation:
               In sign of obedience,
               Our oath of allegiance
Beer-glasses shall be,
And he that tipples ten is of the nobility.

               But if in this reign
               The halberted train
Or the constable should rebel,
And should make their turbill’d militia to swell,
   And against the King’s party raise arms;
      Then the drawers, like yeomen
               Of the guards, with quart pots
               Shall fuddle the sots,
      While we make ’em both cuckolds and freemen;
   And on their wives beat up alarums.
               Thus as each health passes
               We’ll triple the glasses,
And hold it no sin
To be loyal and drink in defence of our King.