Sir John Suckling's Answer

I tell thee, fellow, whoe'er thou be,That made this fine sing-song of me,Thou art a rhyming sot:These very lines do thee bewray;This barren wit makes all men say,5'Twas some rebellious Scot.

But it's no wonder that you singSuch songs of me who am no king,When every Blue Cap swearsHe'll not obey King James his ba'rn,10That hugs a bishop under his arm,And hangs them in his ears.

Had I been of your covenant,You would have call'd me John of Gaunt,And given me great renown;15But, now I am John for the King,You say I am but a poor Suckling,And thus you cry me down.

Well, it's no matter what you sayOf me or mine, that ran away:20I hold it no good fashionA loyal subject's blood to spill,When we have knaves enough to killBy force and proclamation.

Commend me unto Lashly stout,25And all his pedlars him about:Tell them without remorseThat I will plunder all their packsWhich they have gotten, with the stolen knick-knacks,With these my hundred horse.30

This holy war, this zealous firkAgainst the bishops and the kirk,And its pretended bravery—Religion, all the world can tell,Amongst Highlanders ne'er did dwell—35It's but to cloak your knavery.

Such desperate gamesters as you be,I cannot blame for tutoring me,Since all you have is down;And every boor forgets the plough,40And swears that he'll turn gamester nowAnd venture for a crown.