1.

H O w poor is his Spirit? how lost is his Name,
Deceiveth Opinion, and Curtailes his Fame?
When as his Designs come near to their height,
'Twixt shall I and shall I , suspect their own weight,
He has traffiqu'd for Honour, but lost the whole Freight:
He that's stout in the Front, not so in the Rear,
Doth forfeit his Fame, and is Cow'd out by Fear.

2.

A small part of Honor to him doth belong,
Consults not the Glory, but faints in the throng;
That dares not embrace what his own Soul doth Vote,
But yields up Our Liberties to a Red-coat;
Sure Midsommer's near, and some Men doth dote:
I like the bold Romanes, (whose Fame ever rings)
That kept in Subjection such pittifull things.

3.

He that will be Bug-bear'd, is turn'd again Child,
A Reed than a Scepter is fitter to weild:
Examine the Story, no Story you'l find,
Saving the Story, that Kat will to kind ,
The World is deluded, the Common-wealth blind;
These false stamps of Honour prove but Copper-Mettle,
And Fame sounds as loud from a Tinkers old Kettle.

4.

He that past has the Pikes, and found Canon-free,
Which shews that noe Curse from his Parents could be,
Had a Soul so devout, it made Killing a Trade;
And now to retreat at the sent of a Blade
Doth show of what Mold our Knight-Errant was made;
He that flagges in his Flight, when's Ambition sores high,
Doth stabb his own Merit, & gives Fame the lye.

5.

Then Cicero -like, yea Gown-men drench Cares,
O're-whelm'd with your Own, and your Countries Affairs;
And Pulpit-men too be as Airy as Wee;
Do you but preach Sack up, we'l ne'r disagree,
That Common-wealth's best that is the most free:
Then fret not, nor care not, when the Sack's in our Crown,
We can fancy a King up, or fancy Him down.