As well die now! Youth is the only time
To think and to decide on a great course:
Manhood with action follows; but 'tis dreary
To have to alter our whole life in age —

The time past, the strength gone! As well die now.
When we meet, Pym, I'd be set right not now!

Best die. Then if there's any fault, fault too
Dies, smothered up. Poor gray old little Laud
May dream his dream out of a perfect Church,
In some blind corner. And there's no one left.
I trust the King now wholly to you, Pym!
And yet, I know not: I shall not be there:
Friends fail-if he have any. And he's weak,
And loves the Queen, and-O, my fate is nothing -
Nothing! But not that awful head

not that!

Pym. If England shall declare such will to me Straf. No, not for England now, not for Heaven

See, Pym, for my sake, mine who kneel to you!
There, I will thank you for the death, my friend!
This is the meeting: let me love you well!

Pym. England, I am thine own! Dost thou

exact

That service? I obey thee to the end.

Straf. O God, I shall die first- I shall die first!

CAVALIER TUNES

ROBERT BROWNING

THE death of Strafford did not appease the reformers, nor yet the king's reluctant surrender of important powers and privileges. Pym and his fellows suspected, and with good reason, the sincerity of the royal promises, while Charles's friends believed that the Parliamentarians were meditating revolution. Both factions prepared for the inevitable struggle. The king's standard was set up at Nottingham Castle (August, 1642), and many lords and gentlemen gathered there to his support. The country districts of the north and west were usually loyal. Parliament was intrenched in London, and could count on aid from the towns of the east and south. For four years the land was devastated by the contending armies.

I

MARCHING ALONG

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King,
Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing:

And, pressing a troop unable to stoop

And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop,
Marched them along, fifty-score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

God for King Charles! Pym and such carles

To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles!

Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup,

Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup

Till you're

(Chorus) - Marching along, fifty-score strong,

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell.
Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well!
England, good cheer! Rupert is near!

Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here,

(Chorus)- Marching along, fifty-score strong,

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song?

Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls
To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles!
Hold by the right, you double your might;
So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight,
(Chorus) — March we along, fifty-score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!

II

GIVE A ROUSE

King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now,
King Charles!

Who gave me the goods that went since?
Who raised me the house that sank once?
Who helped me to gold I spent since?
Who found me in wine you drank once?

(Chorus)- King Charles, and who'll do him right now?

King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now,
King Charles!

III

BOOT AND SADDLE

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Rescue my castle before the hot day
Brightens to blue from its silvery gray.
(Chorus)- Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;
Many's the friend there, will listen and pray,
"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay
(Chorus) — Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,
Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array:
Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay,

(Chorus)-Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, “Nay!
I've better counsellors; what counsel they?
(Chorus)-Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”

TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON

RICHARD LOVELACE

RICHARD LOVELACE was a poet and a great favorite at the court of Charles I. As the differences between the king and the Parliament grew more serious, Lovelace threw himself heart and soul into his royal master's cause. In April, 1642, he undertook to present to the House of Commons a petition in the king's behalf from the county of Kent. The document was received with contempt, burned by the common hangman, and Lovelace was thrown into the Gatehouse

prison. No sooner was he free than this ardent champion of royalty joined the Cavalier army. He fought through the war and died (1658) in abject poverty, his whole fortune being spent in useless attempts to serve his sovereign.

When Love with unconfinèd wings

Hovers within my gates,

And my divine Althea brings.

To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair
And fetter'd to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air

Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses crown'd,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free-
Fishes that tipple in the deep

Know no such liberty.

When, (like committed linnets), I

With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty
And glories of my King;

When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.