The corruption of the times by money a satyr / by Robert Gould.

THE Corruption of the Times BY MONEY. A SATYR. 'TWAS not the dazling Gem, or shining Ore, The Pride of Courts, nor Pluto's endless store That in mild Saturn's peaceful Reign, of old, Did constitute the famous Age of Gold; 'Twas Innocence alone, the greatest Good That cou'd on human Nature be bestow'd: Under his Vine each Man securely lay, And, Wealth unknown, ne'er practis'd to betray. The Daughter's Dowry was untainted Youth, Attended by Virginity and Truth; Who now can one with such a Fortune find? O charming— but O faithless Womankind! Why are not Heav'n's best-Blessings made to last? Ah! Why so brittle? Why so quickly past? Why did those Golden Minutes fly so fast? Upright the Image of his God was made, But Ah! How is he warp'd? How is he stray'd? His own Inventions, wildly, he pursues, Can gain but little; and has much to lose ▪ Ev'n Earth's dark Bowels from his piercing sight Cou'd not conceal her seeds of glittering Light! He digs, succeeds, his shining Labour fines, And streight has new Desires and new Designs: Swell'd with his Wealth, disclaims his kindred Earth, And talks of Titles, Dignities, and Birth. With Use of Money use of Fraud began, And then 'twas, first, that Man did ruin Man. A while, indeed, the happy Spartan State, With a firm Mind, did all her Charms rebate, And so long stood as if 'twere prop'd by Fate: Success her Standard ever did attend, And Fame declares her Praise shall never end: But Gold and Silver seiz'd the Reins at length, Those Delilahs betray'd her of her Strength, Unstrung her Nerves and usher'd in her Bane, Which half the World, before, had strove to do in vain. To name the Guilt, the Cruelty, and Rage▪ This Mischief has produc'd in every Age, Is not the Task which here the Muse enjoyns; We only speak the Follies and the Crimes With which it does infest the Present Times: Bold the Design, but points at publick good, And that will have the publick Thanks, —or shou'd. Take, then, a view of all that you can see, Of each Religion, Calling, and Degree; The Presbiterians, Baptists, Quakers, Papists, Socinians, and their elder Brethren Atheists; Lords, Laqueys, Juglers, Judges, Knaves and Fools, Punks, Players, Pimps and Bawds, with all the shoals Of Trading Cuckolds that encompass Pauls; Mark to what Centre all their Motions tend, And see if Mony's not their only end, Their Primum Mobile that makes no stay, But wheels about and turns 'em all one way. The dutious Knee Observance paid by Heirs, The Bully's Curses and the Beggars Prayers, The Lover's Courtship and the Cant of Schism, The Strumpet's Patience under Priapism, The Statesman's Love he to his Country bears, The perjur'd Villains Lavishness of Ears. The Noise of Billingsgate, the Eloquence Of Lawyers, which they Copy out from thence, Only the Jargon's more and less the Sense; The Whitehall fawning Office to obtain (While good Men dance Attendance there in vain; A Flutt'ring Coxcomb, or a pliant Knave Has still, in Court, th' Advantage of the Brave, For he that's honest will not be a Slave: The base Submissions to Insult we show, (For Man, by Nature, cannot stoop so low) The Slavish Distance we to Favorites pay, (For Knaves in Office turn Promotions Key,) Priests cringing to Superior Mitr'd-Pride, Supple to them, but stiff to all beside; The Love and Friendship we to rich Men feign, And ev'n the Poets Panegyrick Strain, Is nothing else but the pursuit of Gain. 'Tis true, most of them (which would force a Smile) Hunt on cold scent, pursue a fruitless toyl. The Punning Coxcomb may pretend to get, But — (if I too may pun) 'tis more in Debt. The Laquey may grow Rich while Lords come short, Of which we'ave store of Instances at Court. The Jugler and the Judge, too, may complain, For both now strive to cheat the World in vain; In slight and shift and Trick they both agree, But a quick Eye may all their Hocus see: This diff'rence, thô, we may between 'em write, That, by Profession, does deceive your sight, This does you wrong and sits to do you right: How many for a trifling Theft have dy'd▪ While Murd'rers live and flourish by a Bribe. Why (O ye Pow'rs) must the sad Hemp and Hymn ▪ Belong to Common Rogues and only them? And the curs'd Judge, that has an Itching Palm, Dye Old, without his Halter and a Psalm? The Soldiers, too▪ may cease of War to prate, For cutting Throats may once grow out of Date! And then we starve the Male-Contents of State; Those needy Villains that still pray for Change, To satisfie their Wants and their Revenge. The Scismatick may Cant but be deceiv'd, For Knaves and Fools may cease to be believ'd: What Holiness so e'er the Fops may feign, Their Audience finds their Godliness is Gain: Large Contributions made 'em leave the Church, And now grown small, have left them in the lurch. Their Resty Flocks will serve God in no way Th' Indulgence of the State allows they may: A true-blue Sect'riss, like a Weed that crop'd, Will thrust Ten Branches out for one that's lop'd, But let alone, like that, he grows so fast, He is by his own Rankness kill'd at last: Whoever, then, intends their Extirpation, Will do it easiest by a Toleration. The Harlot's Pleasure too may turn to pain, One cruel Flux licks up a Twelve-months Gain; But Flux on Flux makes not her lewdness less, Nor the vain Fop less eager to possess; Till pox'd all o'er, embracing one another, They but change Hells at last, from that to 'tother. The Friendship of the Rich we may implore, And shall attain it— if we are not poor: They Feast, invite, and pamper one another, But spare not one Thought on a Starving-Brother: Yet some will give, but 'tis to get applause, Or patch up many avaricious Flaws; A specious Veil they draw, but who's not blind May see the sneaking, grudging Churl behind. Can a few Pence you give the Crime attone Of scraping Pounds together, not your own? Some of it glean'd from the Day-Laborers Hire, And some retrench'd from Servants Food and Fire: Or if I throw a Shilling to the Poor. Relieves it him I wrong'd of Ten before? Mistaken Men! so did that Limner paint. That made a Devil and design'd a Saint. The Poet, too, a Parasite may be But thrô his fulsom Praise all Eyes may see His Little Truth and large Necessity: If he cringe much the less will be his Lot; A Hangman's Hire is not so basely got. Why shou'd a Wit (against Apollo's Rules) Take pay for giving Fame to Knaves and Fools? Why shou'd that Art to prostitution fall? Inspir'd by Heav'n, yet at a Coxcomb's Call. O fix not him a Pattern for the Times That's Eminent for nothing but his Crimes! But let that Patron only fill your Lays That does Reward your Toyl, not buy your praise: Such Sidney was, and such is Dorset now, With Wreaths of everlasting Praise adorn his gen'rous Brow. But Pander, Player, Pimp and Bawd will thrive As long as Farce, or Theatre survive, For Lust and Vanity o'erflow the Age, And still ebb back to their own Spring, the Stage; But leave, at every Tyde, more Vice behind Than there wou'd need to taint all Human-kind: So Nile, decreasing, spreads a slime so Rich, Serpents take Life from the Suns Vital Itch, Less monstrous Births than Play-house Dog and Bitch. Thus, thô th'extreamest Shift and Craft is try'd. The most that Toyl for Gain shoot short, or wide; Unluckily at the bright mark they aim, Which thô they miss, they must not miss the blame, For their undue pursuit is still the same. Destructive Mineral! when God curs'd the Earth Was the sad Minute that did give thee Birth; From Hell thou com'st, and thither must again Retire, when done thy Universal Reign: Nor does this with the Ancients disagree▪ When to each thing th'assign'd a Deity, He that was God of Hell was God of thee. Talk not of Nations rul'd by Caesar's Line, The greatest Monarchy on Earth is thine: VVith Faith thou may'st Futurity contend, For Thine's a Kingdom that will never end. VVhat more than happy Minutes might we see? How Virtuous? How like Angels might we be (Thou thrice accursed Mineral!) but for thee? VVhile we are Infants we but with thee play, Nor care to keep, but rather throw away: Ah! VVhy (or do we older grow in vain?) Don't we in Age that Quality retain? VVhy shou'd our first Five Years be wiser far Than all our following, riper Moments are? Much are we tempted by the Female Face, A Thousand ways they bring us to disgrace, But Gold's the great Debaucher of our Race! Lovers and Fools, perhaps, wou'd come by kind, But among Men one Villain you'd not find That Tempter silent, our quick-hoisted Sail Is always spread to take the smiling Gale; Not once considering there in that may be More Rocks and Shelves and Sands than in the Sea. Gold to Deaths Palace leads the steepy way, Once in the Path we have no Power to stay; It blinds our Eyes, nor one safe step assures, And has a Key to all his Thousand Doors. When shou'd we hear of Treachery in War, But for thee, thee, thou greater Mischief far? What Countries has the Gallick Monarch's Gold Poorly and basely, fasly, bought and Sold? No Persons for his Countreys Friends are known But Spotted Traytors that would sell their own: True Glory he, yet never had in Chase▪ But ows his Honours (what can be more base? Ev'n to the Refuse of all Human Race. Why shou'd we talk so hard of Machiavel (As if he had equal'd the Prime Fiend of Hell) And pass by Mazarin and Richlieu's Name, No less than him deserving endless blame? Justice, Injustice were by turns carest, Just as they serv'd their Tyrants Interest? Thô the blest Pledge of Publick Faith had past, The League, if not convenient, must not last: Not done ith' dark, the World proclaim'd the shame! And taught from hence (their freedom who can blame? Ev'n Infidels reproach the Blessed Name: Doubt a Turk's Faith, he'l this reply afford; Am I a Christian Dog to break my Word? These two Achitophels are justly curst, And shou'd have had the Fate, too, of the first. Their Politicks does still his Councils Rule, To these two fatal Names he went to School, And such successful, wicked Progress made, He does transcend the Teachers in their Trade. His treach'rous Gold he deals by Sea, by Land, Bribery's the Base on which his Fame does Stand, Take that away he falls, while every Eye Sees 'twas not Courage made him soar so high! That no true Conduct the Crown'd Atheist rear'd, But his Suborning of the Foes he fear'd. Flagitious Villains! that for Foreign Pay Their King their Country and their Friends betray! Villains! whom Mercy's Self wou'd blush to save, Or, tho 'twere under Tyburn, grant a Grave, For whom all Curses past and all to come Here and in Hell it Self's too mild a Doom! Yet they shall boast their Birth and high Descent, Which is, if possible, more Impudent: 'Tis true, we own, as to their Station here, Some of 'em move in an Illustrious Sphere; (Illustrious, if they wou'd continue there:) But as no Man is Base-born that is Good, So Peers may be Plebeians understood, For Virtue 'twas that first distinguish'd Blood: He that betrays his Country, thô the first In Pow'r, is, in degree of Vice, the worst: If he, then, that's most Vitious is most Base, Why shou'd a Villain talk of Noble Race? If by brave Deeds our Fathers got a Name, Have we by Ill the same Pretence to Fame? Ah! no—their Glory, but decrys our Shame. These are the Tools the Tirant does seduce, No Devil half so proper for his Use. So Philip, when he with the Graecians strove. Did by the same Machine his Actions move; Cities he sack'd, and did much more perform By that, than his whole Army could by Storm. But Infamous his Memory is compar'd With his great Son, who made his Sword his Guard, In Person fought, the conquer'd East o'er ran; Thô not Heav'n-born, if Blood by Blood we scan, Not Philip, Sire, but some more God-like Man: Of his reputed Father's Acts asham'd, Begot that Saying, yet so justly fam'd; (To which his Life so clearly did agree,) Advis'd, by Night, to fight the Enemy, He cry'd—He wou'd not steal a Victory: Thô then he for the Mightiest Empire fought, So, as he greatly spoke, 'twas bravely-sought. Gold he despis'd, or us'd as Glory bid, And made it the Reward of those that did Great things; the Man of Merit lay not hid. So in the Age to come, when William's Name And haughty Louis are declar'd by Fame, The first shall stand with such Illustrious Braves We nam'd before, the last with Treacherous Slaves; Whom here the Muse the rather does impeach, To show no Crime beyond a Satyrs reach▪ Yet, thô he bribes so high, it has its rise To that low sordid Crime of Avarice; For if he part with a Substantial Sum, 'Tis but a Penny gone for Pounds to come. Well may to Covet (as Prescription Sings) Be the curst Root from whence all Evil Springs, When that Plebeian Vice can Mount to Kings. But these, curst Mineral, are not half the ills That down from Thee on Wretched Man distils; Thou art not only cause of Publick bane, But dost in Private hold as loose a Rein: All Dealing is thy own; cheat that cheat can, Is thy great Maxim between Man and Man. Some are thy Sworn and some thy daily Slaves; Women and Thee make all Men Fools and Knaves. Man is so pliant to thy forming Hand He runs into all Moulds, at thy Command Takes all Impressions, and is prov'd, by Thee, The constant Drudge of Inconsistency. 'Tis thou that dost this Proteus unbind From what h'has Sworn, and what he has design'd, And mak'st him vary Colour, Shape and Mind; Now in Trunk-Breeches, next in Pantaloons, Now prays with Priests, then Curses with Dragoons, In the same Breath, 'tis bless us, and 'tis Zoons. Influenc'd by Thee, we trust not one another, Or if we do, w'are cheated by a Brother. Neighbour on Neighbour thou like Dogs dost set, And mak'st 'em faster keep the Hold they get: We first grieve at another's Happiness, And the next Step we strive to make it less, Or what he has, wou'd wrongfully possess. Envy from thee draws out her sharpest Stings. By thee encourag'd, she her Arrow slings, Alike, Promiscuously, at Slaves and Kings: The very Altar can't secure the Hand On which she'll fix her Stigmatizing Brand; Traduces them, does their just Income grutch, Prays they may starve; to her (her Nature's such) To God that gave all, one in Ten's too much: Not but 'tis wish'd those Tenths were better us'd, More duly paid, and, taken, less abus'd. 'Tis thou that dost the Fashion-Monger guide, And art the sweetest Nourishment of Pride; 'Tis thou dost spread her like a Peacock's Tail, And breath the Blast that fills the gawdy Sail: In Women thou dost, chiefly, make her Reign, And Female Fops, if possible, more vain. Head-Tires like Turbants, now, our Ladies wear, False Hearts, false Shapes, false Honour and false Hair: Against th'old VVoman's Steeple-Hat they cry, Yet, with slight Gauzes, dress three times as high: The good VVives Cover was not made in vain, The Other's hous'd with the first drop of Rain: Close to her Tail th' Obsequious Coxcomb goes, And licks his Lips with pleasing of his Nose: VVhere-e're she comes, so loose a Train she brings, Thô Men by Name, you'd swear they're other things: Just so attended the proud Bitch does pass The Streets, Tray, Ring-wood, Jowler at her Arse. The Changes of their Minds we may admire, But can they vary more than their Attire? You'll say this is false Doctrine I maintain, VVomen may plead Prescription to be vain: To clear their Guilt, that Plea will never do, For then all Fops might plead Prescription too. But you, perhaps, are brib'd to take their Part, And cry, no Pride's a Sin, but Pride of Heart; And therefore, since no Opticks can pretend Into those deep Recesses to descend, We know not who is Proud—you err again, No other Crime can be descry'd so plain: VVho does not see Pride in our Nature lies▪ VVhen what we ought to Honour we despise? The Parents that did press us to the Breast Must not appear, if they are meanly drest, Or if they do, their Visits must be brief, As if they lost their Senses with their Teeth. Some drive 'em from their Doors (unnatural Race!) And wonder they'l come there to their Disgrace. 'Tis true, this only is of Upstarts said, The better Sort, you'l say, are better bred; But mark if in their Conduct you can find One Thought that's to Humility inclin'd: Their nearest Kin, reduc'd to Poverty, They loath to hear of, and they blush to see. Observe the Fop that is just come to Age. (His Mother dead that brought the Heritage;) See in a Storm, when he does Coach the Streets, And his old Father overtakes, or meets, Dropping all o'er and soak'd thrô to the Skin, Mark if the Villain stops to take him in. In short, Men of Estate, and Noble Blood, By consequence, are rather Proud than Good: Pride's Fountain-Head we may from Money bring As nat'rally as Water from the Spring; VVhether 'tis in the Heart, or in the Dress, More Money makes it more, but never less: But when this Vice does on poor Gentry fall, 'Tis then the most Ridiculous of all▪ For he that's Thread-bare, and that's bare of Pence, If to Nobility he makes Pretence, VVE may conclude to be as bare of Sense. VVith Pride thou giv'st Birth to her grinning Train, To all that is affected, all that's Vain; Vanity (who one whole Sex devours) Stands waiting at her Elbow at all Hours, Just as, they say, the Devil does at Ours; And Affectation takes her very Trace, VVhen one appears, the Other's still in Place: So the Bawd waits at the great State's-Mans Doors, And so attended with her Brace of Whores: For the vain Nimph, and the affected Dame, If not so yet, will quickly be the same. In Coach and Chair they whirl it up and down, No Common Haokny-Strumpet's better known, Not Hatton's Steel-chin'd Drab that tir'd the Town, And did more Surgeons in a year enrich, Than all the rest—the Ne plus ultra Bitch! These Creatures are for ever on the Range; The Play-House, Park, Spring-Garden, Court, Exchange, Their daily Round, where, thô whole years they run, They tire no more than when they first begun; Rather push faster onwards in the Race, As falling Stones, cou'd we suppose a Space So deep, wou'd near the Centre mend their Pace: Chatt'ring, Dancing, Singing, each her Part Runs wildly o'er, without Wit, Heed, or Art; And if a Coxcomb, Pert, and Vain, and Dull, Does joyn their Train, he makes the Concert full: Not Guzling Gossips at a Christning Feast, VVhen Mother Mid-night drops a Bawdy Jest, (Of all the VVomen, still the greatest Beast) Can make that Unintelligible Din As these abound with when their Hands are in. In Dress, in Language, Converse, Shape and Miene Are Vanity and Affectation seen: Nothing so hard, of all ill things, to hide As these Appendixes and Rags of Pride. Yet, who can think their selves so free from Guilt As the vain Coxcomb and affected Jilt? In vain we wou'd convert 'em with our Rage, They're best convinc'd by Beggary and Age, Both be their Lot, for who wou'd Pity have On a fine foolish Drab, or Selfish Slave? False glaring Fires! but rais'd (O Gold!) frome thine, Thy Brightness makes these Exalations shine. Ev'n Contradictions take from thee their Rise, As Prodigality and Avarice; Nor dost thou only but in Them agree, Thou art the Sire of Sloath and Industry: Not of that Industry, by which the Swain, VVith Sweat and Toil, does earn an honest Gain: (O Industry! thou Child of true Content, VVho'd not be Needy to be Innocent?) But that which makes the Merchant cross the Main, The Lawyer any Villain's Cause maintain, Those Indefatigable Slaves of Gain: VVho wou'd not be the Labourer, nam'd before, Than these with an Ill Conscience, and their Store? But, as the Man that's Civil ne're will hit The lucky Vain that constitutes a Wit; So he that's Honest, cannot Wealthy grow By the bare Method of Continuing so: VVhatever, then, the thriving Churl may say, All great Estates are got another way. O Honesty! thou lasting Peace of Mind, Thou Radiant Jewel which but few will find▪ All over bright thou lie'st to charm the Eye, But (wretched Men!) we wink and pass thee by. Give me but that, ye Pow'rs, I ask no more, To Muck-Worms leave the Riches they adore: No surer Guard I'le e're desire to keep Me safe, nor softer Opium for my Sleep: Serene my Hours, like them my Conscience, free, Which no rich prosp'rous Villain e're can be, No griping, scraping, hard, assiduous Slave, No wealthy Fool, or over-reaching Knave, Thô he is lighted by the Sun of Pleasure, And can by Basking on his Banks of Treasure. But, as this faulty Industry takes Growth From thee, no less doth Laziness and Sloath: If by our Servants Labour we can shun The thought of Care, we hold our Work is done: Not thinking, while we doze away our Hours, The more their Business, so, the more is Ours; Their Labour does our Laziness reproach, Our Laziness their Labour does debauch. Who'd think, at ten a Clock it shou'd be said That the great Lady's soaking in her Bed? When, to repair the sensible Decay That twelve hours hearty Sleep has took away, Dish after Dish, for Chocolate she calls; (She must be often rais'd that often falls.) That strong-back'd Liquor hoops 'em in the Chine, No other Nectar they allow Divine. Vain Sex! at once both Foolish and Unjust, To think they need Provocatives to Lust: Were all their Lives to be one Nuptial Night, Their Stock wou'd never be exhausted quite; Then, on their Natural Fund they might rely, And not so lavishly take in Supply. Name but a Kitchin to the Lady fair, She crys, O filthy! What shou'd I do there? Not thinking that the more she knows, the less, By consequence, she's blam'd for Foolishness. Her Offices she never comes into, Or scarce knows one from 'tother, if she do; Full of themselves, they nothing else can see; Thô Mothers, yet their Pocket-Glass shall be Look'd into oftner than their Nursery: Mark, in this Town, if there's not many a one That hugs her Monky oftner than her Son, (And, saith, we scarce know which is most her own: 'Tis that she cheers and fondles all we can, And loves the nearest Print of it in Man: The vilest Fop, whom Nature did create For nothing but to Cringe, to Grin and Prate, Fraught with more Fashion, Nonsense, Lies, Grimace, Than e're before were crowded in Ass; Let him appear, th'unnatural Brute's receiv'd, Nor only Lov'd, but, which is worse, Believ'd! Yet Sloath's not only to that Sex confin'd, But has a large Dominion in Mankind. Wou'd not that Noble Coxcomb raise our Mirth, That thinks his Laziness declares his Birth, Joyn'd with a Resolution, ne're to get Out of a Mercinary Rascal's Debt? Of all the Blockheads that debase their Kind, No Wretch more Vile and Scandalous we find, Than he, that for Respect and Honour looks, Yet over Head and Ears in Trades-Mens Books: (Not that we shou'd despise the Man that's poor; But these look bigger, as their Wants grow more: If Quality can stoop so very low, What is't it may not condescend to do? Dissolv'd in Idleness, he grows a Drone, And neither Eats, or Drinks, or wears his own; But spunges on the Labours of the Poor, Who, trusting Them, make but their Wants the more. Their Servants Wages, if they ever pay, I warn the lucky Wretch to make no Stay, Let him go off with Money, while he may; For Quality has long the Trick profest, To bilk the yearly Hireling with the rest. A Man that's doom'd to serve so loose a Knave, Is sunk down ten Degrees beneath a Slave: And who his Life wou'd in that Drudgery spend, When, shou'd he hang himself, his Case wou'd mend? In short, to Cheat, and to be Impudent When Duns appear, is the last Element, (And by meer Choice it so it self involves) To which Decaying Quality resolves. The lesser Gentry, rather that Abroad Venture to serve their Prince, infest the Road; But a Thieve's Valour no true Praise deserves, For any Coward rather Fights than Starves. 'Tis not that Providence, as Atheists feign, Has made more Creatures than it can maintain; All Men may thrive, at least, thus far you'l grant, By just Endeavours rise above their Want: Who did you ever yet in Tatters see, That did exert his utmost Industry? For no Man Fortune does so far forsake, But he may sometives give, as well as take. But 'tis meer Sloath, incorporate with his Blood, And Pride, that says 'tis slavish to be Good, That it betrays a Base, a Vulgar Mind, To seek by Industry their Bread to find;— As if 'twere Great to prey upon their Kind; As if the Wolf were e're the better Beast, Because more Bold and Rav'nous than the rest, And on the Blood of Innocence will Feast. From these the Muse with Detestation flies, And streight, what more she loaths, the Spend-thrift spies: Preposterous Fop! that thinks it an Abuse To put his Money to the Genuine Use, As if no Gentleman, if not Profuse. See how he deals it out as he comes on, And with both Hands too, as 'twou'd ne're be gone! You'd swear he study'd, or he understood How to live all his Life, and do no Good. A Guinea she that gives his Lust Relief Bears off, a Guinea he that cleans his Teeth, A Guinea he that brings him a Lampoon, To Peaceable a Guinea for a Tune; A Guinea, where he Dines, among the Men, The Dedication of a Play is Ten, His Peruke five, and his Point Ruffles four, His Beaver three, his Lac'd Coat fifteen more, And then Five hundred to his Annual Whore: Besides his Coach, his Horses, and his Slaves, His Parasites, his Pimps and Hireling Braves, Must be conceiv'd to wast a Countless Sum; From what vast Bank can all this Treasure come? What English Land, or Indian Mine can last, When the vain Animal does spend so fast? Rich, thô he be, when to that Vice inclin'd, He Blazes like a Candle in the Wind, And, gratifying all his loose Desires, Is melted down, and in a Snuff expires: Thô Wealth and Power does in his Van appear, Want and a Jayl does still bring up the Reer; A Jayl is the Inevitable Lot Of an Extravagant and heedless Sot. Shook by a thousand Debts, the Prodigal Does, in effect, like the Colossus fall; Too ponderous to lift up, like that, he lies, And as unable, of himself, to rise. Thus, that this Vice proceeds from Gold we see, Fox without that, no Prodigality. That Avarice from that, too, takes its Birth Is true, as that the Churl has his from Earth: But this Notorious Crime it were a Shame To offer to Convict, or to Reclaim; Nor was it here to lash it our Intent, 'Tis to it self a sharper Punishment. What Plagues upon a Miser can you throw, Worse than that One of his Continuing so? May then these Slaves (by Contradiction ill) Gripe, scrape, be close and Avaritious still, Gaze on his Gold, think that his only Good, And so be damn'd for grutching himself Food. But as the Wretch is Covetous that hoards, So some are Covetous to spread their Boards; By Power supported (Rapine their Delight) They set no Bounds to their wild Appetite; Whate're they Covet they think lawful Prize, So Lawlesly the Labourer's Substance seize, And all to dwell in Wantonness and Ease: The needy Churl we may, almost, excuse, But these are Covetous to be Profuse. What a strange Madness does these Fools betray? That rake together just to throw away, And give that Wings that ne're was know to stay. The former errs in knowing not the Use; This in the Getting, then in the Abuse: Haughty, yet condescends to crush the Poor. To cram his Belly, and to pay his Whore. Thus Luxury's maintain'd by Avarice; But then another sort, as bad as this, Has from Hereditary Wealth its Rise: Extant in them who in their Bills of Fare Summon, at once, the Earth, the Sea, the Air: The Elements must all their Bounties show, As if not what they gave, but what they ow, And must pay in when they will have it so. The want e'vn of a Trifle's not endur'd, Thô by th'extremest Art and Charge procur'd. Nature is forc'd, as if most good they find In Fruits and Plants before they're ripe, by kind. Not a more num'rous Army Xerxes led, Than these, by Name, have Dishes to be fed: More barbarous Terms we now in Cookery see, Than in that barb'rou Myst'ry Heraldry; And as those Terms distinguish Gentry there, So Friscasies, Ragousts and Soups do here— And both, alike, their Wit and Worth declare. That God made all for Man we all agree, But then 'twas for his Use, not Luxury; He did not open his unbounded Store, Only to feast the Rich, and starve the Poor; Thô now they Lord it o'er the meaner Sort, And make their Labours and their Wants their Sport; Voluptuously, all Nature's Rarities, (As if by Charter theirs) Monopolize: Yet, thô they've all, they think they're treated rough, And, like the Barren Womb, ne're say—Enough. What a sad Sentence on these Men will fall At the last dreadful Trump, the general Call? When, notwithstanding all their Wealth and Power, They murmur'd more, the more they did devour: Thô Heav'n sent Quails, and thô it Manna rain'd, They, like the stubborn Israelites, complain'd; The more its Miracles appeal'd to sense, The less they'd be convinc'd of Providence: While the poor Man, which (if we may presume So far) must strangely aggravate their Doom, While he, resign'd, by his just Labour fed, Liv'd pleas'd and thankful upon Scraps of Bread! O Poverty! thou only Blessing, sent From Heav'n, if thou'rt attended with Content; She on that Hand, and Honesty on this; And thou art, then the greatest Human Bliss: Not Caesar, Lepidus, and Antony, Did make so famous a Triumviri As you, O you much more illustrious Three! Wealth has no Centre, endlesly aspices, Yet ne're can reach the Height it so admires, As there to pitch and fix her Wild Desires: But Poverty close to the Ground does go, And hugs the Fate that lets her walk so low; No fall she fears, contented to be just, She sinks beneath Ambition, Rage and Lust: Envy her self, that takes the surest Aim, Cares not for stooping to such prostrate Game. So Storms on Mountains the tall Cedar tears Up by the Roots, the humble Shrub it spares. O Blessed State! which God was pleas'd to bear While, in the Flesh, he sojourn'd with us here; He knew thy lovely Dress wou'd best agree With Peace, with Truth, and with Humility: Thy Badge, too, all his mighty Followers bore, And wou'd be what their Saviour was before; What Wretch, then, wou'd Repine that he is Poor? Bounded by Thee, w'ave no desire to ly On Beds of Doun, or Offices to buy, Which, rightly took, is but Lay-Simony;— 'Tis to that common Clergy-Crime a Brother, And one is punish'd now no more than 'tother. He that has Money can't Preferment want; Let him be Coward, Atheist, Ignorant, He streight grows Wise, a Hero, and a Saint. As once 'twas said, knock, it shall open'd be, Seek you shall find—so in this World, we see, And most at Court, when e're the Penny's shown, The Heav'n of bought Preferment is your own. Some, Places buy, because they'l Courtiers grow, And some, again, because they must be so, Above the fear of Paying what they ow; There they, secure, as in Alsatia, rest, Alsatia, of the two Retreats the best; There you, unearth the Fox, Relief may have; But here there is no reaching of a Knave: And while they, thus, a sure Protection find, They are but Authoriz'd to cheat Mankind: A Villain that will use this Priviledge, Cuts like a Sword that has a double Edge; May arrest you, yet fear not an Arest, Always oppressing, not to be opprest: Thus, ow a World, 'tis this way even made, Get but a Place at Court, your Debts are paid: 'Tis hence the vilest Offices are bought, They fall not half so fast as they are sought. Five hundred Guinea's (faith the Bargain's hard) Only to Cock a Hat, and mount the Guard: Fantastick Ape! that struts in Scarlet Cloaths, And has of Souldier, nothing but the Oaths. Little his Father thought (who had been long Getting the Sum, and from his Tenants wrung It half by Indirection) that his Soul Was pawn'd, to make his Eldest-Born a Fool. What Man can think that Money justy gain'd, By which a Villain's Vanity's maintain'd? 'Tis true, the Wars (which don't their Natures suit) Has shook, perhaps, these Locusts from the Fruiut; But who that, lately, wou'd Hyds-Park survey, Did not see many a Coxcomb that took Pay, Only to ride a Cock-horse on May-Day? His Credit just for Rabble-Praise to sell. And bowing to the Ladies in Pell-Mell; While prancing on, and straining to look fierce, And his fine Scarf hung dangling at his Arce, The whole Town was diverted with the Farce. In vain the honest Man is Brave, or Wise, When any Mony'd Fop so soon may rise; If but a Seavenger does tender Gold, The Man of Birth and Worth is bought and sold: For he that can no better Merit bring Than Loving of his Country, or his King, May e'en go whistle for Advancement there; His Lung's too fine to breath in such an Air. In short, all things are bought; Buying's so rife, Fools Knighthoods buy, the Murtherer buys his Life, And, which is worse, ev'n Grandio bought his Wife; A thousand Guinea's down and down were told, Before the Pander did produce the Scold: But, if to have her, the preposterous Sot Cou'd let so large a Parcel go to Pot, What wou'd he give that, now, he had her not? Enough of Buying between Fool and Rogue: But Begging is, at Court, as much in Vogue, And 'tis a sort of Begging baser far, Than all the vilest ways of Bribery are. The Natural Fool that has a Great Estate, Is, to the Courtier, grown a luscious Bait: But if Estates are forfeit by the Laws, When Fools are Heirs (thô Fools by Natural Cause) Half of the Gentry must their Lands resign, For why is theirs more priviledg'd than thine? In short, wou'd not a near Relation's Care Cherish the Ideot, the Soft-moulded Hair, More tenderly than any thread-bare Lord, Of all the Hundreds fil'd upon Record? Profit maks one take Care, and Nature 'tother; What Love is like the Yernings of a Mother? Unhappiness enough she knew that bore So sad a Weight, but this does make it more: Depriv'd of all that Mothers make their Boast; Because she lost her Hope, must all be lost? Why shou'd such senseless Cruelty be shown? Why punish'd for an Error nor her own? 'Twas Nature's Crime, who sometimes is in hast, For when a Fool is form'd she works too fast, And letting but the grosser Substance pass, Shuts out the Mind, that shou'd inform the Mass; At the next Tryal, she her Bungling mends, And thither too, of Right, th' Estate descends: The Birth-Right Esau's Folly did refuse; What he deserv'd not, Jacob did not lose. But if 'tis fit, Fools shou'd be begg'd at all, Of all Sorts, we shou'd spare the Natural; The acquir'd Coxcomb shou'd the Person be, That's so of Choice, not of Necessity: This way some equal Justice might be shown, For those that beg Estates might lose their own. Must a whole Lineage perish, undeserv'd, Because without their Lands a Fop had starv'd? Whatever made this Custom first prevail, Morality still told another Tale; For, let us fairly ask, is it to do, What you wou'd have yor Issue done unto? Nor is it only Fools that suffer hence, Th' Affliction falls too oft on Men of Sense; Thou—dost of this th'Example stand, Thy Case is known and pity'd thrô the Land. With these Court-Beggars, we may fitly joyn The Slaves in Office that Collect their Coin: Tell me (O Stewards!) that do all you can When you are Dealing with the Labouring Man, With Plausible Discourse and Artifice, To screw him up to the extremest Price; Making him give (if he don't understand Your Craft) as much for Coppy-hold as Land; Yet, after all, there comes thy Lady's Fee, Five Guinea's—(which, perhaps, she ne're does see) Because y'ave us'd him well, five more to Thee: Tell me behind what Shift thou canst retreat, T'avoid the the Imputation of a Cheat? Perhaps, you may this dull Reply afford, Thou dost it for the Interest of thy Lord; The worse, that can a Villains Name obtain, Without the least Incouragement of Gain, It shows thy Guilt does in thy Nature grow, And that 'tis not by Chance, but Choice, y'are so. But thô their Interest you pretend, 'tis known, By Proofs Infallible, you mean your Own. How can you spend so fast, and live so high, New Houses build, and New Possessions buy, And get some Hundred Pounds, per Annum, clear, Out of, at most, but Fifty Pounds a Year? Yet, thô so bad, we justly may allow The Man that does protect thee worse than Thou, Who, thô he's sure thou art a Knave, employs The still, and so whole Families destroys. But that which grieves me more, is, when I see A Lawyer made a Steward, or Trustee; Cormorants, that neither Lord or Tenant spare, But Banter one, and strip the other bare: An Honest Lawyer wou'd a Monster be, But who, alive, e're saw that Prodigy. As Proffligate, a braz'd Case-hardn'd Race, As ever yet had Infamy in Chase: Knights of the Post, that perjur'd Oaths will take As fast as Pills, much better Christians make, And have, without Contrition, more pretence, To Heav'n than these with all their Penitence; For Ign'rance, joyn'd with strong Necessity, Does sometimes goad men on to Villany; 'Tis certain when w'are born we must be fed, And what won't starving Rascals do for Bread? But what can those Men urge in their Defence, That rowl in Wealth, and are indu'd with Sense? Yet Lye, Deceive, Cheat, Ravage, Crush and Grind, As if they'd sworn to ruine Human-kind. Just as the Vulture, Tiger, Wolf and Bear, By Nature, nothing in their Fury spare; So he, that does to study Law encline, By Nature, is as Rav'nous after Coin; Only this Difference does between 'em light, Those better Bruits for Hunger kill and fight, Destroy for Need, which he does for Delight: So Cruel, his own Kindred he'll not save; When Born, his Stars their sharpest Influence gave, And turn'd his Constitution to a Knave. Knavery's his Life, his Soul, his utmost Sphere; But Virtue makes him gape like Fish in Air, That pure thin Element he cannot bear. Ah Wretch! that so can to be Rich presume, Yet think not on the Rich Man's dreadful Doom! Happy that glorious Man, thrice happy he, That, thô possest of Riches, yet, can be From all the Crimes that it produces free; Who, Spight of that Temptation to be ill, Can his Disires and Wealth command at will; What God design'd his Servant, manage so, As ne're to let it his proud Master grow; Ungovern'd, then, as Water, or as Fire, Who, thô for Servants we so much admire, Yet ruin all when they to rule aspire; That does the Genuine Use of Money know, And, serv'd himself, the Surplus can bestow; That does believe Compassion of the Poor, A truer Key to Heaven's Eternal Door, Than all the Merits of his Birth and Store; That does with Virtue, Peace and Truth comply, The Centre of his Actions, Charity, The Cammel then goes thrô the Needle's Eye! But where? O where! (and search the Land around) Can Ten of these enlightned Souls be found? Cou'd Ten be found, they wou'd attone our Crimes, And, by their Blest Example, fix the Times, Keep all Calamities from entring here, Plague, Famine, Sword, and Fire we need not fear; Our Sodom had not burnt, had ten such Lots been there, Nor, first, with Plague, call'd to repent her Sin; But when is her Conversion to begin? The only Fear of all, methinks, shou'd be, When such Transcendency of Soul we see, We shou'd fall back to flat Idolatry; In them the Image of the Power Divine Does with so perfect a Resemblance Shine, That, thô no Gods, they're scarce of Human-Line! Instead of these, a Brutal Race we see, Compos'd of Pride, of Spite and Cruelty: The Poor (their kinder Dogs will lick their Sores) Like Lazarus, are driven from their Doors; Their needy Neighbours made eternal Slaves, At least, they have no Ease, but in their Graves, That silent, kind Retreat from Fools and Knaves: Not Busby's more despotick in his School, Than these are in the Villages they Rule. The Sat'rist may th'Abuse of Riches mourn, Or blame th'Abuser, but he meets with Scorn, For, streight they cry—You like the Fox impeach, And but dispraise the Fruit you cannot reach: Did you but know the Blessings of our Store, You'd rather choose Damnation than be Poor: The Rich Man rules Assemblies with a Nod, His Steps are by a Train of Followers trod; Where e're he turns his Eyes, Respect he sees, And bending Crowds salute him on their Knees; The States-Man, Courtier, Souldier, Scholar joyn In their Esteem, and Bless the Man of Coin. While base, opprobrious Want does skulk and hide, Loath'd by her self, and shun'd by all beside; And then the Term of Idle to prevent, She calls her sneaking Poverty, Content.— Thus they run on, and that Seraphick State, Conferr'd but on Heav'n's choicest Favourites, Hate; A State, did Angels live on Earth, they'd choose, A State, next to the Loss of Heav'n to lose, And only Man and Devils can abuse. But tell me, Sons of Earth, ye Sordid Crew, That wou'd deceive our Souls by specious Shew, And to your own, add our Destruction too; Tell me if Money from Perdition saves, Or keeps you e're the longer from your Grave? Can it preserve your Bodies (thô your Bed Be Doun, and thô your Tomb he hoop'd with Lead) From Stinking Living, and from Rotting Dead? Can it the Charges of your Crimes defray? Or Bribe the Jury on the Judgment-Day? Can it procure, in Pain, a Moments Ease? Make Pleasure last? or Disappointments please? Honour, you cry, and all her Blessings wait On his Command that has a large Estate; O fond Mistake! a thousand things he wants, Which God ev'n to the meanest Creature grants: Richer than Crassus, though the Muck worm be, He may not have a Grain of Charity, Of Courage, Justice, Fortitude, of Truth, Of Sense, of Prudence, Beauty, or of Youth; And, last of all, that Blessed Peace of Mind May want in Death, which ev'n the poorest find. To all Temptation he lies open still; For he that has the Means ne're wants the Will, So, almost, by Necessity is ill. To Women does your Inclination ly? This brings you in a numberless Supply— But Women are so cheap that all may buy: To Villany, or Wine, then, bend your Mind, To Sins of the most Black, or Scarlet-Kind, Gold is the readiest Prompter you can find; Dare you to act, your Cue you shall not miss, But down you go, thô Hell the Precipice: He is not, then, the Favorite of Heav'n, Where there is much, but where enough is giv'n. Of all the several Fates that Mortals share, His is most sad, his is the most severe, That has (O dreadful Doom!) his Portion here; That in this Life does his good things receive, And whom, when dying, his Enjoyments leave: The Pale-fac'd Tirant's Call he must obey, He dares nor go, yet knows he must not stay, Nor bear the Wealth, he so admires, away; But, opening the Inevitable Gate, Hopeless of Heav'n, does shoot the Gulph of Fate. How dismal will the flaming Prospect shew, When Hell, and full Damnation come in view? In vain he'l, then, his Crimes and Follies mourn, The deeper plung'd for thinking of Return. Then will he feel, and feeling Rue, how vain He was, to trust in curst, ill-gotten Gain: These Lines (which we expect he'l laugh at here) Will then a sad, a dreadful Truth appear: Then he will wish (Ah wretched Wish! too late) He had believ'd, or fear'd a future State. Why (O ye Pow'rs!) was Man so subject made, To be by Gold, that glittering Toy, betray'd? Or, as the Fire tries that, was that to be The Test and Tryal of our Honesty? Or was it gave (that way our Judgement leans) To shew how ill we are when we have Means? Or was it, meerly, of Compassion sent, To mind us of that future Punishment Which it does so exactly represent? For as those Souls to endless Burnings doom'd, Are ever undiminish'd, unconsum'd, That Substance, so, in Flames abides entire, "And lies Immortal in the Arms of Fire. How e're it is, of this we may be sure, By Nature we'ave a thousand Crimes in Store And that subjects us to ten thousand more; Yes, cursed Mineral! Eve did, in the Fall, Thy Project of Damnation but fore-stall. Against our Consciences you stem the Tyde; In vain we'ave Truth and Reason on our side, When you assume the Chair, and grow our Guide: We know w'are wicked, yet thou goad'st us on, As if our Mortal Race wou'd ne're be run. Injurious Truths you to the World raveal, And on black Falshoods six an endless Seal: The Tongue of horrid Murders thou hast ty'd, And Innocence for Guilt as oft decry'd: Oft has the Guiltless Wretch been Gibbet-high, Seen swinging, and the Murtherer smiling by. E'en a chast Kiss has Scandal brought on some, While Buggery has met a milder Doom. Nothing was e're so wicked, Old or New, But thou hast done, or art prepar'd to do; Crimes that deserve more than for Fiends was meant, And Hell can't equal in the Punishment. For thee the Friend proves Faithless to his Trust, And Mother Bawds to their own Daughter's Lust; At twelve years Age, expose the Girl to sale, For at fifteen she will be found too stale: What in her riper Whoredoms will she be, When she does Pox with her Virginity? For thee the needy Drab does strowl the Streets, And cling to any nasty Bruit she meets, A Bulk her Bed, her daggl'd Tail her Sheets: To Cripples, Lepers, Moors she opens wide; 'Tis certain (cou'd th' Experiment be try'd) A Dog with Two Pence wou'd not be deny'd: But, wisely, they let taimed Flesh alone, Or fear the Scandal, having (as 'tis known) A nicer sort of Bitches of their own. For thee the Husband (to himself unjust) Does wink at, or allow his Spouse's Lust; And, thô he but enjoy'd her just before, Can rise and open her Gallants the Door: Thus Laccar'd first, she's for the Labour eas'd, As Coach-Wheels for a Journey still are greas'd. For thee, if by hard Fate he cannot thrive, The well-bred Wife does her poor Husband leave; She thinks below her Character she goes, And can't be Honest in unmodish Cloaths. In vain her Spouse believ'd her plighted Troth, Her Virgin Vows, and Sacred Marriage Oath; A Tye sufficient her loose Faith to bind: Unless a plenteous Maintainance she find, Wedded to him, she's Bedded to Mankind. For thee the Buffoon is a Foe profest To all that's good, and lives and dies a Beast: Paid to make Mirth, he cannot Witty be Without the help of loose Scurility, Of Irreligion, or of Ribaldry: Thus, not by Wit, but Wickedness possest, He does but Damn himself to clinch his Jest. For Thee the Cit not only Truth denies, But solemnly calls God to vouch his Lyes: His Faith and Conscience he does pawn so fast, 'Tis to be wonder'd how the Stock does last. As just is he that steals for his Relief, For what's a Trades-man but a licens'd Thief. For Thee his Wife (too cunning for the Man) Does cheat the Cheater all that Woman can: Yet to the Fop an Angel she appears, And is so Fond, that it breaks out in Tears: His ready Cash he to her Care does trust, And laughs at those that think their Wives unjust. Mean while she, like a Leech, does drain him dry, Then ranges all the Town for a Supply: Frequents th' Exchanges, Parks and Plays, and strikes A Bargain up with every One she likes; And let 'em do their best, for as their Play Is More or Less, 'tis answer'd in their Pay. For Thee then, thus, we see Men Stallions grow, Yet few will blame these Slaves for being so: The Punk was Liberal, Loving, Young and Fair, And they will cry—Cou'd Flesh and Blood forbear? But what can that Wretch for his Lewdness say, Who is the Drudge of an old Hag for Pay? Thus Shrivel, wicked to increase his Store, Lives infamously with a Rampant Whore; Exhausts his Strength to please the insatiate Itch Of a bold, strong Dock'd, fleshly, brinded Bitch; And all t'enjoy (and has enjoy'd it long,) A pitifull Estate she holds by Wrong. What shall we say? but that of Villany, Has any Bounds (as yet we ne're cou'd see) Its utmost Pillars are set up by Thee: In vain we wou'd the Ills you cause unfold, If we write Ages, half will be untold. E'en Women, in comparison of Thee, Use wretched Men with some Humanity— They Damn One Part, and you the other Three▪ THE END.