Win at First, lose at Last:
Or, A New Game at Cards: Wherein the King recovered his Crown, and Traitors lost their Heads.

To the Tune of; Ye Gallants that delight to play.
YE merry hearts that love to play
At Cards, see who hath won the day,
You that once did sadly sing,
The Knave o' th Clubs hath won the King:
How more happy times ye have,
The King hath overcome the Knave;
The King hath overcome the Knave.
Not long ago a Game was play'd,
When three Crowns at the stake was lay'd,
England had no cause to boast,
Knaves won that which Kings had lost:
Coaches gave the way to Carts,
And Clubs were better Cards than Hearts; &c.
Old Noll was the Knave o' th Clubs,
And Dad of such as Preach in Tubs:
Bradshaw, Ireton, and Pride,
Were three other Knaves beside:
And they play'd with half the Pack,
Throwing out all Cards but Black; &c.
But the just Fates threw these four out,
Which made the Loyal Party shout,
The Pope would fain have had the Stock,
And with these Cards have whip'd his Deck,
But soon the Devil these Card snatches,
To dip in Brimstone and make Matches;
To dip; &c.
But still the sport for to maintain,
Lambert, Haslerige, and Vain,
And one-ey'd Hewson, took their places,
Knaves were better Cards then Aces:
But Fleetwood he himself did save,
Because he was More Fool than Knave; &c.
Cromwell, though he so much had won,
Yet he had an unlucky Son:
He sits still and not regards,
Whilst cunning Gamesters set the Cards,
And thus alas, poor silly Dick,
He playd a while; but lost the Trick; &c.
The Rumpers that had won whole Towns,
The spoyls of Martyrs, and of Crowns:
Were not contented but grew rough,
As though they had not won enough;
They kept the Cards still in their hands,
To play for Tithes and Colledge Lands;
To play; &c.
The Presbyters began to fret,
That they were like to loose the set,
Unto the Rump they did appeal,
And said it was their turns to deal,
Then dealt the Presbyterians, but,
The Army sware that they will cut;
The Army sware that they will cut.
THe Forraign Lands began to wonder,
To see what Gallants we lived under,
That they which Christmas did forswear,
Should follow Gameing all the Year:
Nay more, which was the strangest thing,
To play so long without a King;
To play so long without a King.
The bold Phanaticks present were,
Like Butlers, with their boxes there:
Not doubting but that every Game
Some profit would redound to them:
Because they were the Gamester's Minions,
And every day broacht new Opinions; &c.
But Cheshire Men (as stories say)
Began to shew them Gamesters play:
Brave Booth, and all his Army strives
To save the stakes or lose their lives:
But Oh sad fate, they were undone,
By playing of their Cards too soon: &c.
Thus all the while a Club was trump,
There's none could ever beat the Rump:
Until a noble General came,
And gave the Cheaters a clear slam:
His finger did out-wit their noddy,
And screw'd up poor Iack Lamberts body, &c.
Then Hasllrige began to scowl:
And said the General plaid foul:
Look to him Partners, for I tell ye,
This Monk has got a King in's belly:
Not so, quoth Monk, but I believe
Sir Arthur has a Knave in's sleeve, &c.
When General Monk did understand
The Rump were peeping into's hand:
He wisely kept his Cards from sight,
Which put the Rump into a fright:
He saw how many were betray'd.
That shew'd their Cards before they play'd, &c.
At length, quoth he, some Cards we lack,
I will not play with half a Pack:
What you cast out, I will bring in,
And a new Game we will begin:
With that the standers by did say,
They never yet saw fairer play; &c.
But presently this Game was past,
And for a second Knaves were cast;
All new Cards, not stain'd with spots,
As was the Rumpers and the Scots:
Here good Gamesters plaid their parts,
They turned up the King of Hearts; &c.
After this Game was done, I think:
The Standers by had cause to drink:
And the Loyal Subjects sing,
Farewel Knaves, and welcome King:
For till we saw the King return'd,
We Wish'd the Cards had all been burn'd;
We wish'd the Cards had all been burn'd.
L. P.

London, Printed for Fra. Coles; Tho. Vere; Io. VVright and Io. Clarke, 168 [...].

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