Of the warres in Ireland

I Prays'd the speech, but cannot now abide it,
That war is sweet, to those that haue not try'd it:
For I haue prou'd it now, and plainely see't,
It is so sweet, it maketh all things sweet.
At home Canarie wines and Greeke grow lothsome:
Here milke is Nectar, water tasteth toothsome.
There without bak't, rost, boyld, it is no cheere.
Bisket we like, and Bonny Clabo heere.
There we complaine of one reare rosted chicke:
Heere viler meat, worse cookt, ne're makes me sicke.
At home in silken spauers, beds of Downe,
We scant can rest, but still tosse vp and downe:
Heere I can sleepe, a saddle to my pillow,
A hedge the Curtaine, Canopy a Willow.
There if a child but cry, oh what a spite!
Heere we can brooke three larums in one night.
There homely roomes must be perfum'd with Roses:
Here match and powder ne're offends our noses.
There from a storme of raine we run like Pullets:
Heere we stand fast against a showre of bullets.
Lo then how greatly their opinions erre,
That thinke there is no great delight in warre:
But yet for this (sweet warre) Ile be thy debter,
I shall for euer loue my home the better.