Which those locusts do eat,
Now every man's a beggar.



Ballad: The Royalist



By Alex. Brome. Written 1646.


Come pass about the bowl to me,
A health to our distressed King;
Though we're in hold let cups go free,
Birds in a cage may freely sing.
The ground does tipple healths afar
When storms do fall, and shall not we?
A sorrow dares not show its face
When we are ships, and sack's the sea.

Pox on this grief, hang wealth, let's sing;
Shall's kill ourselves for fear of death?
We'll live by th' air which songs do bring,
Our sighing does but waste our breath.
Then let us not be discontent,
Nor drink a glass the less of wine;
In vain they'll think their plagues are spent
When once they see we don't repine.