The Spanish Curate

I beseech you That my refusal of so great an offer May make no ill construction, ’tis not pride (That common vice is far from my condition) That makes you a denyal to receive A favour I should sue for: nor the fashion Which the Country follows, in which to be a servant In those that groan beneath the heavy weight Of poverty, is held an argument Of a base abject mind, I wish my years Were fit to do you service in a nature That might become a Gentleman (give me leave To think my self one) My Father serv’d the King As a Captain in the field; and though his fortune Return’d him home a poor man, he was rich In Reputation, and wounds fairly taken. Nor am I by his ill success deterr’d, I rather feel a strong desire that sways me To follow his profession, and if Heaven Hath mark’d me out to be a man, how proud, In the service of my Country, should I be, To trail a Pike under your brave command! There, I would follow you as a guide to honour, Though all the horrours of the War made up To stop my passage.