Virtue is its own reward,
And Fortune is a whore;
There's none but knaves and fools regard her,
Or her power implore.
But he that is a trusty ROGER,
And will serve the King;
Altho' he be a tatter'd soldier,
Yet may skip and sing:
Whilst we that fight for love,
May in the way of honour prove
That they who make sport of us
May come short of us;
Fate will flatter them,
And will scatter them;
Whilst our loyalty
Looks upon royalty,
We that live peacefully,
May be successfully
Crown'd with a crown at last.

Tho' a real honest man
May be quite undone,
He'll show his allegiance,
Love, and obedience;
Those will raise him up,
Honour stays him up,
Virtue keeps him up,
And we praise him up.
Whilst the vain courtiers dine,
With their bottles full of wine,