A Song in praise of Soldiery, sung in Don Quixote, and set to Musick by Mr. Henry Purcell, which is compos'd in his Orpheus Britannicus.
SIng, sing all ye Muses, your Lutes strike around,
When a Souldier's the Story, what Tongue can want Sound?
Who Danger disdains,
Wounds, Bruises, and Pains,
And the Honour of Fighting is all that he gains;
Rich Profit comes easy in Cities of Store,
But the Gold is earn'd hard where the Cannons do rore;
Yet see how they run
At the storming a Town,
Thro' Blood, and thro' Fire, to take the Half-moon;
They scale the high Wall,
Whence they see others fall,
Their Heart's precious darling, bright Glory pursuing,
Tho' Death's under foot, and the Mine is just blowing;
It springs, up they fly,
Yet more will supply,
As Bridegrooms to marry, they hasten to die,
'Till Fate claps her Wings,
And the glad Tydings brings,
Of the Breach being enter'd, and then they're all Kings;
Then happy's she, whose Face
Can win the Soldier's Grace,
They range about in State
Like Gods, disposing Fate.
No Luxury in Peace,
Nor Pleasure in Excess,
Can parallel the Joys the Martial Heroes crown,
When flush'd with Rage, and forc'd by Want, they storm a wealthy Town.
