THE CORRUPTION OF THE TIMES BY MONEY. A satire.  
By ROBERT GOULD.  
LONDON: Printed for Matthew Wotton at the Three Daggers in Fleetstreet, 1693.   

TO Fleetwood Sheppard Esq Gentleman-Usher to the KING, etc.  
SIR,  
I Hearty wish there were anything in this Poem that would countervail the Honour you would do me if you please to accept of it: I lay it at your Feet, with an humble Acknowledgement of the many Favours you have done me; And as I am sensible this Return will not weigh down the lest of 'em, so it should not be omitted if I were certain 'twould overbalance the greatest. Thou I am removed from you so far, and have not seen you for some Years, yet neither Distance nor Time shall make me forget how great a Friend you have been to me, nor fail to own it with all that due Respect that becomes me whenever I hear you mentioned. I never think of Ingratitude but with Detestation; certainly there is not a greater Sign of an ill Christian than unthankfulness to Benefactors: 'Tis true, there are some Men that falsely pretend to that Honourable Title; if they do a Kindness they will sometimes repent of it, which shows their Benevolence was only good Humour: Others will boast of it, and that proclaims theirs to be Ostentation: There are others that confine their Bounty to a single Person, a Pimp or a Parasite shall be plentifully relieved, and the poor Man that is just ready to perish shall be sent away with Curses; an Action quite contrary to the noble and diffusive Essence of Charity. 'Tis not, Sir, so with you; there never was a Man known so ready, upon all Occasions, to be serviceable to all sorts of Persons. Again, there are yet others that think they merit very highly by dropping some small pieces to the Poor, and they too come dribbling from them as if their Charity had the Strangury: 'Tis better, indeed, to give little than not at all, but it is better to give nothing than to bestow it grudgingly, for what Benefit can such pretend to from that Text of Scripture that says, God loves a cheerful Giver. In the mean time you are endeavouring to procure for Indigent Persons competent Subsistences for their Lives, which is relieving whole Families at once, and stretching your Charity to succeeding Generations. No Man that ever asked your Assistance wanted it, even though he had no pretence to it. That Importunity which others think is Impudence appears to you Necessity; and 'tis not to be doubted, but a Man depressed in his Circumstances says and does many things which he blushes at in private. You have yet another Beneficence of Mind which is very much admired, and seems to have more Humanity in it than any thing I have mentioned; and that is, that even a Man's Faults makes not your Kindness the lesle active; in which, no doubt, you do excellently well: To forbear to do good to any Person because he is not so virtuous as he aught to be, gives us a just pretence to do no good at all, for no Man is without his Failings: To be kind to Merit is so indispensably our Duty, that it leaves the lesle room for our Praises; on the other hand, to deal out our Kindnesses promiscuously, without regard to the Errors of some, or the blind-sides of others, is, in some proportion, to be like God himself; for we, by our Desert, have no pretence to his Favours, should he withhold his Bounties from all that are bad, there would hardly be one good Man left to thank him for his Blessings.  
From what has been said may be collected the Nobleness of your Temper; and indeed you have ever valued Virtue so much, and Richeses so little, that were not this Address my Duty, it should have been my Choice: To whom could I more fitly make a Present of this Poem, than to him that needs not blush when he reads it? Had my Performance been equal to my Idea of the Subject, there had not one Knave or Fool gone unpunished: But however, I may have failed in the main Design, I have to say, in my Defence, that my Intentions were honest, and I beg you, Sir, to let that (for it has scarce any other Virtue,) recommend it to your Protection: Though it may want that Spirit that should animate a satire, it wants not that Sincerity that should Influence a Christian, for I may safely swear to the Truth of every Article.  
Having this Opportunity, I should here declare to the World those other Excellencies of yours that are so much the Admiration and Delight of it; that happy Pleasantness of Disposition, that habitual Liveliness and Delicacy of Conversation, that Reach and Sublimity of Judgement, that inexhaustible Variety and Newness of Wit, which has made you the Esteem of the First Rank of Nobility in the Kingdom, and raised you up even to an Intimacy with Princes; but this is what I shall forbear to insist on, because I will comply with your Modesty, and, indeed, with all things else that may show I am,  
Sir, Your most humble, and truly devoted Servant R. GOULD   

THE Corruption of the Times BY MONEY. A satire.  

'TWAS not the dazzling 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 could on human Nature be bestowed:  
Under his Vine each Man securely lay,  
And, Wealth unknown, ne'er practised to betray.  
The Daughter's Dowry was untainted Youth,  
Attended by Virginity and Truth;  
Who now can one with such a Fortune found?  
O charming— but O faithless Womankind!   

Why are not Heavens' best-Blessings made to last?  
Ah! Why so brittle? Why so quickly passed?  
Why did those Golden Minutes fly so fast?  
Upright the Image of his God was made,  
But Ah! How is he warped? How is he strayed?  
His own Inventions, wildly, he pursues,  
Can gain but little; and has much to loose▪  
Even Earth's dark Bowels from his piercing sight  
Could not conceal her seeds of glittering Light!  
He digs, succeeds, his shining Labour fines,  
And straight has new Desires and new Designs:  
Swelled with his Wealth, disclaims his kindred Earth,  
And talks of Titles, Dignities, and Birth.  
With Use of Money use of Fraud began,  
And than '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 propped by Fate:  
Success her Standard ever did attend,  
And Fame declares her Praise shall never end:  
But Gold and Silver seized the Reinss at length,  
Those Delilahs betrayed her of her Strength,  
Unstrung her Nerves and ushered in her Bane,  
Which half the World, before, had striven to do in vain.   

To name the Gild, the Cruelty, and Rage▪  
This Mischief has produced in every Age,  
Is not the Task which here the Muse enjoins;  
We only speak the Follies and the Crimes  
With which it does infested the Present Times:  
Bold the Design, but points at public good,  
And that will have the public Thanks,— or should.   

Take, than, a view of all that you can see,  
Of each Religion, Calling, and Degree;  
The Presbiterians, Baptists, Quakers, Papists,  
Socinians, and their elder Brethrens Atheists;  
Lords, Laqueys, Jugglers, Judges, Knaves and Fools,  
Punks, Players, Pimps and Bawds, with all the shoals  
Of Trading Cuckolds that encompass Paul's;  
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 duteous Knee Observance paid by Heirs,  
The Bully's Curses and the Beggar's 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 perjured Villains Lavishness of Ears.  
The Noise of Billingsgate, the Eloquence  
Of Lawyers, which they Copy out from thence,  
Only the Jargon's more and lesle the Sense;  
The Whitehall fawning Office to obtain  
(While good Men dance Attendance there in vain;  
A Fluttering 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 Favourites pay,  
(For Knaves in Office turn Promotions Key,)  
Priests cringing to Superior Mitr'd-Pride,  
Suppling to them, but stiff to all beside;  
The Love and Friendship we to rich Men feign,  
And even the Poet's Panegyric 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 toil.  
The Punning Coxcomb may pretend to get,  
But— (if I too may pun) 'tis more in Debt.  
The Lackey may grow Rich while Lords come short,  
Of which we've store of Instances at Court.  
The Juggler and the Judge, too, may complain,  
For both now strive to cheat the World in vain;  
In slight and shifted and Trick they both agreed,  
But a quick Eye may all their Hocus see:  
This difference, though, we may between 'em writ,  
That, by Profession, does deceive your sight,  
This does you wrong and sits to do you right:  
How many for a trifling Theft have died▪  
While Murderers live and flourish by a Bribe.  
Why (O ye Powers) must the sad Hemp and Hymn▪  
Belong to Common Rogues and only them?  
And the cursed 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 than we starve the Malcontents of State;  
Those needy Villains that still pray for Change,  
To satisfy their Wants and their Revenge.  
The Schismatic may Cant but be deceived,  
For Knaves and Fools may cease to be believed:  
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 cropped,  
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 killed at last:  
Whoever, than, 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 Twelvemonths Gain;  
But Flux on Flux makes not her lewdness lesle,  
Nor the vain Fop lesle eager to possess;  
Till poxed all over, embracing one another,  
They but change Hells at last, from that to ‛ t'other.  
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 atone  
Of scraping Pounds together, not your own?  
Some of it gleaned from the Day-Laborers Hire,  
And some retrenched from Servants Food and Fire:  
Or if I throw a Shilling to the Poor.  
Relieves it him I wronged of Ten before?  
Mistaken Men! so did that Limner paint.  
That made a Devil and designed a Saint.  
The Poet, too, a Parasite may be  
But through his fulsome Praise all Eyes may see  
His Little Truth and large Necessity:  
If he cringe much the lesle will be his Lot;  
A Hangman's Hire is not so basely got.  
Why should a Wit (against Apollo's Rules)  
Take pay for giving Fame to Knaves and Fools?  
Why should that Art to prostitution fall?  
Inspired by Heaven, 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 Toil, not buy your praise:  
Such Sidney was, and such is Dorset now,  
With Wreaths of everlasting Praise adorn his generous Brow.  
But Pander, Player, Pimp and Bawd will thrive  
As long as Farce, or Theatre survive,  
For Lust and Vanity overflow the Age,  
And still ebb back to their own Spring, the Stage;  
But leave, at every Tide, more Vice behind  
Than there would need to taint all Humankind:  
So Nile, decreasing, spreads a slime so Rich,  
Serpents take Life from the Sun's Vital Itch,  
Lesle monstrous Births than Playhouse Dog and Bitch.  
Thus, though th'extremest Shift and Craft is tried.  
The most that Toil for Gain shoot short, or wide;  
Unluckily at the bright mark they aim,  
Which though they miss, they must not miss the blame,  
For their undue pursuit is still the same.   

Destructive Mineral! when God cursed the Earth  
Was the sad Minute that did give thee Birth;  
From Hell thou comest, and thither must again  
Retire, when done thy Universal Reign:  
Nor does this with the Ancients disagree▪  
When to each thing th'assigned a Deity,  
He that was God of Hell was God of thee.  
Talk not of Nations ruled by Caesar's Line,  
The greatest Monarchy on Earth is thine:  
With Faith thou may'st Futurity contend,  
For Thine's a Kingdom that will never end.  
What more than happy Minutes might we see?  
How Virtuous? How like Angels might we be  
(Thou thrice accursed Mineral!) but for thee?  
While we are Infants we but with thee play,  
Nor care to keep, but rather throw away:  
Ah! Why (or do we older grow in vain?)  
Don't we in Age that Quality retain?  
Why should our first Five Years be wiser far  
Than all our following, riper Moment's 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, would come by kind,  
But among Men one Villain you'd not found  
That Tempter silent, our quick-hoisted Sail  
Is always spread to take the smiling Gale;  
Not once considering there in that may be  
Moore Rocks and Shelves and Sands than in the Sea.  
Gold to Death's 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 should we hear of Treachery in War,  
But for thee, thou, thou greater Mischief far?  
What Countries has the gallic Monarch's Gold  
Poorly and basely, falsely, bought and Sold?  
Not Persons for his countries' Friends are known  
But Spotted Traitors that would cell their own:  
True Glory he, yet never had in Chase▪  
But owes his Honours (what can be more base?  
Even to the Refuse of all Human Race.  
Why should we talk so hard of Machiavelli  
(As if he had equalled the Prime Fiend of Hell)  
And pass by Mazarin and Richlieu's Name,  
Not lesle than him deserving endless blame?  
Justice, Injustice were by turns carest,  
Just as they served their Tyrant's Interest?  
Tho' the blessed Pledge of Public Faith had passed,  
The League, if not convenient, must not last:  
Not done i'th' dark, the World proclaimed the shame!  
And taught from hence (their freedom who can blame?  
Even Infidels reproach the Blessed Name:  
Doubt a Turk's Faith, he'll this reply afford;  
Am I a Christian Dog to break my Word?  
These two Achitophel's are justly cursed,  
And should have had the Fate, too, of the first.  
Their Politics 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 treacherous 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 Crowned Atheist reared,  
But his Suborning of the Foes he feared.  
Flagitious Villains! that for Foreign Pay  
Their King their Country and their Friends betray!  
Villains! whom Mercy's Self would blush to save,  
Or, though 'twere under Tyburn, grant a Grave,  
For whom all Curses past and all to come  
Here and in Hell itself'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 would continued there:)  
But as no Man is Base-born that is Good,  
So Peers may be Plebeians understood,  
For Virtue 'twas that first distinguished Blood:  
He that betrays his Country, though the first  
In Power, is, in degree of Vice, the worst:  
If he, than, that's most Vicious is most Base,  
Why should 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! not— their Glory, but decries our Shame.  
These are the Tools the Tyrant does seduce,  
No Devil half so proper for his Use.  
So Philip, when he with the Grecians strove.  
Did by the same Machine his Actions move;  
Cities he sacked, and did much more perform  
By that, than his whole Army could by Storm.  
But Infamous his Memory is compared  
With his great Son, who made his Sword his Guard,  
In Person fought, the conquered East over ran;  
Tho' not heaven-born, if Blood by Blood we scan,  
Not Philip, Sire, but some more Godlike Man:  
Of his reputed Father's Acts ashamed,  
Begot that Saying, yet so justly famed;  
(To which his Life so clearly did agreed,)  
Advised, by Night, to fight the Enemy,  
He cried— He would not steal a Victory:  
Tho' than he for the Mightiest Empire fought,  
So, as he greatly spoke, 'twas bravely-sought.  
Gold he despised, or used 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 Lovis are declared by Fame,  
The first shall stand with such Illustrious Braves  
We named before, the last with Treacherous Slaves;  
Whom here the Muse the rather does impeach,  
To show no Crime beyond a Satyrs reach▪  
Yet, though he bribe's 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 cursed Root from whence all Evil Springs,  
When that Plebeian Vice can Mount to Kings.   

But these, cursed Mineral, are not half the ills  
That down from Thee on Wretched Man distils;  
Thou art not only cause of Public bane,  
But dost in Private hold as lose 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 proved, by Thee,  
The constant Drudge of Inconsistency.  
'Tis thou that dost this Proteus unbind  
From what h'has Sworn, and what he has designed,  
And makest him vary Colour, Shape and Mind;  
Now in Trunk-Breeches, next in Pantaloons,  
Now prays with Priests, than Curses with Dragoons,  
In the same Breath, 'tis bless us, and 'tis Zounds.  
Influenced by Thee, we trust not one another,  
Or if we do, weare cheated by a Brother.  
Neighbour on Neighbour thou like Dogs dost set,  
And makest 'em faster keep the Hold they get:  
We first grieve at another's Happiness,  
And the next Step we strive to make it lesle,  
Or what he has, would wrongfully possess.  
Envy from thee draws out her sharpest Stings.  
By thee encouraged, she her Arrow slings,  
Alike, Promiscuously, at Slaves and Kings:  
The very Altar can't secure the Hand  
On which she'll fix her Stigmatising Brand;  
Traduces them, does their just Income grudge,  
Prays they may starve; to her (her Nature's such)  
To God that gave all, one in Ten's too much:  
Not but 'tis wished those Tenths were better used,  
Moore duly paid, and, taken, lesle abused.   

'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 breathe the Blast that fills the gaudy Sail:  
In Women thou dost, chief, make her Reign,  
And Female Fops, if possible, more vain.  
Head-Tires like Turbans, now, our Ladies wear,  
False Hearts, false Shapes, false Honour and false Hair:  
Against th'old Vvomen Steeple-Hat they cry,  
Yet, with slight Gauzes, dress three times as high:  
The good Wives Cover was not made in vain,  
The Other's housed with the first drop of Rain:  
Close to her Tail th' Obsequious Coxcomb goes,  
And licks his Lips with pleasing of his Nose:  
Where-e're she comes, so lose a Train she brings,  
Tho' 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,  
Women may pled Prescription to be vain:  
To clear their Gild, that Plea will never do,  
For than all Fops might pled Prescription too.  
But you, perhaps, are bribed to take their Part,  
And cry, no Pride's a Sin, but Pride of Heart;  
And therefore, since no Optics can pretend  
Into those deep Recesses to descend,  
We know not who is Proud— you err again,  
Not other Crime can be descried so plain:  
Who does not see Pride in our Nature lies▪  
When what we aught to Honour we despise?  
The Parents that did press us to the Breast  
Must not appear, if they are meanly dressed,  
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'll come there to their Disgrace.  
'Tis true, this only is of Upstarts said,  
The better Sort, you'll say, are better bred;  
But mark if in their Conduct you can found  
One Thought that's to Humility inclined:  
Their nearest Kin, reduced to Poverty,  
They loathe 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 over and soaked through 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 Fountainhead we may from Money bring  
As naturally as Water from the Spring;  
Whether 'tis in the Heart, or in the Dress,  
Moore Money makes it more, but never lesle:  
But when this Vice does on poor Gentry fall,  
'Tis than the most Ridiculous of all▪  
For he that's Threadbare, and that's bore of Pence,  
If to Nobility he makes Pretence,  
WE may conclude to be as bore of Sense.   

With 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,  
When one appears, the Other's still in Place:  
So the Bawd waits at the great State's- Man's Doors,  
And so attended with her Brace of Whores:  
For the vain Nymph, 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-chined Drab that tired 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 Playhouse, Park, Spring-Garden, Court, Exchange,  
Their daily Round, where, though whole years they run,  
They tyre no more than when they first begun;  
Rather push faster onwards in the Race,  
As falling Stones, could we suppose a Space  
So deep, would near the Centre mend their Pace:  
chattering, Dancing, Singing, each her Part  
Runs wildly over, without Wit, Heed, or Art;  
And if a Coxcomb, Pert, and Vain, and Dull,  
Does join their Train, he makes the Concert full:  
Not Guzzling Gossips at a Christening Feast,  
When Mother Midnight drops a Bawdy Jest,  
(Of all the Women, 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 Mien  
Are Vanity and Affectation seen:  
Nothing so hard, of all ill things, to hid  
As these Appendices and Rags of Pride.  
Yet, who can think their selves so free from Gild  
As the vain Coxcomb and affected Jilt?  
In vain we would convert 'em with our Rage,  
They're best convinced by Beggary and Age,  
Both be their Lot, for who would Pity have  
On a fine foolish Drab, or Selfish Slave?  
False glaring Fires! but raised (O Gold!) from thine,  
Thy Brightness makes these Exhalations shine.  
Even Contradictions take from thee their Rise,  
As Prodigality and Avarice;  
Nor dost thou only but in Them agreed,  
Thou art the Sire of Sloth and Industry:  
Not of that Industry, by which the Swain,  
With Sweat and Toil, does earn an honest Gain:  
(O Industry! thou Child of true Content,  
Who'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:  
Who would not be the Labourer, named before,  
Than these with an Ill Conscience, and their Store?  
But, as the Man that's Civil ne'er will hit  
The lucky Vain that constitutes a Wit;  
So he that's Honest, cannot Wealthy grow  
By the bore Method of Continuing so:  
Whatever, than, 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 found▪  
All over bright thou lie'st to charm the Eye,  
But (wretched Men!) we wink and pass thee by.  
Give me but that, ye Powers, I ask not more,  
To Muck-Worms leave the Richeses they adore:  
Not surer Guard I'll e'er desire to keep  
Me safe, nor softer Opium for my Sleep:  
Serene my Hours, like them my Conscience, free,  
Which no rich prosperous Villain e'er can be,  
No griping, scraping, hard, assiduous Slave,  
No wealth Fool, or overreaching Knave,  
Tho' 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, not lesle doth Laziness and Sloth:  
If by our Servants Labour we can eat  
The thought of Care, we hold our Work is done:  
Not thinking, while we dose 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 should 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 raised that often falls.)  
That strong-backed Liquor hoops 'em in the Chine,  
Not 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 would never be exhausted quite;  
Than, on their Natural Fund they might rely,  
And not so lavishly take in Supply.  
Name but a Kitchen to the Lady fair,  
She cries, O filthy! What should I do there?  
Not thinking that the more she knows, the lesle,  
By consequence, she's blamed 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;  
Tho' Mothers, yet their Pocket-Glass shall be  
Looked into oftener than their Nursery:  
Mark, in this Town, if there's not many a one  
That hugs her Monkey oftener 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 created  
For nothing but to Cringe, to Grin and Prate,  
Fraught with more Fashion, Nonsense, Lie, Grimace,  
Than e'er before were crowded in Ass;  
Let him appear, th' unnatural Brutus' received,  
Nor only Loved, but, which is worse, Believed!   

Yet Sloaths not only to that Sex confined,  
But has a large Dominion in Mankind.  
Would not that Noble Coxcomb raise our Mirth,  
That thinks his Laziness declares his Birth,  
Joined with a Resolution, ne'er to get  
Out of a Mercenary Rascal's Debt?  
Of all the Blockheads that debase their Kind,  
No Wretch more Vile and Scandalous we found,  
Than he, that for Respect and Honour looks,  
Yet over Head and Ears in Trades-Mens Books:  
(Not that we should 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?  
Dissolved in Idleness, he grows a Drone,  
And neither Eats, or Drinks, or wears his own;  
But sponges 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 of with Money, while he may;  
For Quality has long the Trick professed,  
To bilk the yearly Hireling with the rest.  
A Man that's doomed to serve so lose a Knave,  
Is sunk down ten Degrees beneath a Slave:  
And who his Life would in that Drudgery spend,  
When, should he hung himself, his Case would mend?  
In short, to Cheat, and to be Impudent  
When Duns appear, is the last Element,  
(And by mere Choice it so itself involves)  
To which Decaying Quality resolves.  
The lesser Gentry, rather that Abroad  
Venture to serve their Prince, infested 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 lest, thus far you'll 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 mere Sloth, 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 found;—  
As if 'twere Great to pray upon their Kind;  
As if the Wolf were e'er the better Beast,  
Because more Bold and Ravenous than the rest,  
And on the Blood of Innocence will Feast.   

From these the Muse with Detestation flies,  
And straight, what more she loathes, the Spendthrift 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 'twould ne'er be gone!  
You'd swear he studied, or he understood  
How to live all his Life, and do not Good.  
A Guinea she that gives his Lust Relief  
Bears of, 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 Laced Coat fifteen more,  
And than Five hundred to his Annual Whore:  
Besides his Coach, his Horses, and his Slaves,  
His Parasites, his Pimps and Hireling Braves,  
Must be conceived to waste 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, though he be, when to that Vice inclined,  
He Blazes like a Candle in the Wind,  
And, gratifying all his lose Desires,  
Is melted down, and in a Snuff expires:  
Tho' Wealth and Power does in his Van appear,  
Want and a Jail does still bring up the Rear;  
A Jail 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 than these Slaves (by Contradiction ill)  
Gripe, scrape, be close and Avaricious still,  
Gaze on his Gold, think that his only Good,  
And so be damned for grudging himself Food.   

But as the Wretch is Covetous that hoards,  
So some are Covetous to spread their Board's;  
By Power supported (Rapine their Delight)  
They set no Bounds to their wild Appetite;  
whate'er they Covet they think lawful Prize,  
So Lawlessly the Labourer's Substance seize,  
And all to devil 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'er was know to stay.  
The former errs in knowing not the Use;  
This in the Getting, than in the Abuse:  
Haughty, yet condescends to crush the Poor.  
To cram his Belly, and to pay his Whore.   

Thus Luxury's maintained by Avarice;  
But than 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 owe,  
And must pay in when they will have it so.  
The want even of a Trifle's not endured,  
Tho' by th'extremest Art and Charge procured.  
Nature is forced, as if most good they found  
In Fruits and Plants before they're ripe, by kind.  
Not a more numerous Army Xerxes led,  
Than these, by Name, have Dishes to be fed:  
Moore barbarous Terms we now in Cookery see,  
Than in that barb'rou Mystery 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 agreed,  
But than 'twas for his Use, not Luxury;  
He did not open his unbounded Store,  
Only to feast the Rich, and starve the Poor;  
Tho' 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) Monopolise:  
Yet, though they've all, they think they're treated rough,  
And, like the Barren Womb, ne'er 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 murmured more, the more they did devour:  
Tho' Heaven sent Quails, and though it Manna reigned,  
They, like the stubborn Israelites, complained;  
The more its Miracles appealed to sense,  
The lesle they'd be convinced of Providence:  
While the poor Man, which (if we may presume  
So far) must strangely aggravate their Doom,  
While he, resigned, by his just Labour fed,  
Lived pleased and thankful upon Scraps of Bread!   

O Poverty! thou only Blessing, sent  
From Heaven, if thou'rt attended with Content;  
She on that Hand, and Honesty on this;  
And thou art, than the greatest Human Bliss:  
Not Caesar, Lepidus, and Antony,  
Did make so famous a Triumvirs  
As you, O you much more illustrious Three!  
Wealth has no Centre, endlessly aspices,  
Yet ne'er 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;  
Not fall she fears, contented to be just,  
She sinks beneath Ambition, Rage and Lust:  
Envy herself, 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 pleased to bear  
While, in the Flesh, he sojourned with us here;  
He knew thy lovely Dress would best agreed  
With Peace, with Truth, and with Humility:  
Thy Badge, too, all his mighty Followers bore,  
And would be what their Saviour was before;  
What Wretch, than, would Repined that he is Poor?   

Bounded by Thee, w'ave no desire to lie  
On Beds of Down, or Offices to buy,  
Which, rightly took, is but Lay-Simony;—  
'Tis to that common Clergy-Crime a Brother,  
And one is punished now no more than ‛ t'other.  
He that has Money can't Preferment want;  
Let him be Coward, Atheist, Ignorant,  
He straight grows Wise, a Hero, and a Saint.  
As once 'twas said, knock, it shall opened be,  
Seek you shall found— so in this World, we see,  
And most at Court, when e'er the Penny's shown,  
The Heaven of bought Preferment is your own.  
Some, Places buy, because they'll Courtier grow,  
And some, again, because they must be so,  
Above the fear of Paying what they owe;  
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 found,  
They are but Authorised to cheat Mankind:  
A Villain that will use this Privilege,  
Cuts like a Sword that has a double Edge;  
May arrest you, yet fear not an Arrest,  
Always oppressing, not to be oppressed:  
Thus, owe 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 heard)  
Only to Cock a Hat, and mount the Guard:  
Fantastic Ape! that struts in Scarlet clothes,  
And has of Soldier, 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 pawned, to make his Eldest-Born a Fool.  
What Man can think that Money justy gained,  
By which a Villain's Vanity's maintained?  
'Tis true, the Wars (which done't their Nature's suit)  
Has shaken, perhaps, these Locusts from the Fruiut;  
But who that, lately, would Hyds-Park surveyed,  
Did not see many a Coxcomb that took Pay,  
Only to ride a Cockhorse on Mayday?  
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 Moneyed 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 not better Merit bring  
Than Loving of his Country, or his King,  
May even go whistle for Advancement there;  
His Lung's too fine to breathe in such an Air.  
In short, all things are bought; Buying so rife,  
Fools Knighthoods buy, the Murderer buys his Life,  
And, which is worse, even 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  
Could let so large a Parcel go to Pot,  
What would 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 base 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 (though Fools by Natural Cause)  
Half of the Gentry must their Lands resign,  
For why is theirs more privileged than thine?  
In short, would not a near Relation's Care  
Cherish the Idiot, the Soft-moulded Hair,  
Moore tenderly than any threadbare Lord,  
Of all the Hundreds filled upon Record?  
Profit makes one take Care, and Nature another's;  
What Love is like the Yerning of a Mother?  
Unhappiness enough she knew that bore  
So sad a Weight, but this does make it more:  
Deprived of all that Mothers make their Boast;  
Because she lost her Hope, must all be lost?  
Why should such senseless Cruelty be shown?  
Why punished for an Error nor her own?  
'Twas Nature's Crime, who sometimes is in haste,  
For when a Fool is formed she works too fast,  
And letting but the grosser Substance pass,  
Shuts out the Mind, that should inform the Mass;  
At the next Trial, she her Bungling mends,  
And thither too, of Right, th' Estate descends:  
The Birthright Esau's Folly did refuse;  
What he deserved not, Jacob did not loose.  
But if 'tis fit, Fools should be begged at all,  
Of all Sorts, we should spare the Natural;  
The acquired Coxcomb should 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 loose their own.  
Must a whole Lineage perish, undeserved,  
Because without their Lands a Fop had starved?  
Whatever made this Custom first prevail,  
Morality still told another Tale;  
For, let us fairly ask, is it to do,  
What you would have your Issue done unto?  
Nor is it only Fools that suffer hence,  
Th' Affliction falls too often on Men of Sense;  
Thou— dost of this th' Example stand,  
Thy Case is known and pitied through the Land.   

With these Court-Beggars, we may fitly join  
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 Copyhold as Land;  
Yet, after all, there comes thy Lady's Fee,  
Five Guinea's— (which, perhaps, she ne'er does see)  
Because y'ave used 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 lest Encouragement of Gain,  
It shows thy Gild does in thy Nature grow,  
And that 'tis not by Chance, but Choice, y'are so.  
But though 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, though so bad, we justly may allow  
The Man that does protect thee worse than Thou,  
Who, though 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 bore:  
An Honest Lawyer would a Monster be,  
But who, alive, e'er saw that Prodigy.  
As Proffligate, a brazed Case-hardned Race,  
As ever yet had Infamy in Chase:  
Knights of the Post, that perjured Oaths will take  
As fast as Pills, much better Christians make,  
And have, without Contrition, more pretence,  
To Heaven than these with all their Penitence;  
For ignorance, joined with strong Necessity,  
Does sometimes goad men on to Villainy;  
'Tis certain when weare born we must be fed,  
And what won't starving Rascals do for Bread?  
But what can those Men urge in their Defence,  
That roll in Wealth, and are endued with Sense?  
Yet Lie, Deceive, Cheat, Ravage, Crush and Grinned,  
As if they'd sworn to ruin Humankind.  
Just as the Vulture, Tiger, Wolf and Bear,  
By Nature, nothing in their Fury spare;  
So he, that does to study Law incline,  
By Nature, is as Ravenous 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 turned 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, though possessed of Richeses, yet, can be  
From all the Crimes that it produces free;  
Who, Spite of that Temptation to be ill,  
Can his Disires and Wealth command at will;  
What God designed his Servant, manage so,  
As ne'er to let it his proud Master grow;  
Ungovern'd, than, as Water, or as Fire,  
Who, though for Servants we so much admire,  
Yet ruin all when they to rule aspire;  
That does the Genuine Use of Money know,  
And, served 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 Camel than goes through the Needle's Eye!  
But where? O where! (and search the Land around)  
Can Ten of these enlightened Souls be found?  
Could Ten be found, they would atone our Crimes,  
And, by their Blessed Example, fix the Times,  
Keep all Calamities from entering 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, called to repent her Sin;  
But when is her Conversion to begin?  
The only Fear of all, methinks, should be,  
When such Transcendency of Soul we see,  
We should fall back to flat Idolatry;  
In them the Image of the Power Divine  
Does with so perfect a Resemblance Shine,  
That, though no Gods, they're scarce of Human-Line!   

Instead of these, a Brutal Race we see,  
Composed 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 lest, they have no Ease, but in their Graves,  
That silent, kind Retreat from Fools and Knaves:  
Not Busby's more despotic in his School,  
Than these are in the Villages they Rule.  
The Sat'rist may th' Abuse of Richeses mourn,  
Or blame th' Abuser, but he meets with Scorn,  
For, straight 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'er he turns his Eyes, Respect he sees,  
And bending Crowds salute him on their Knees;  
The Statesman, Courtier, Soldier, Scholar join  
In their Esteem, and Bless the Man of Coin.  
While base, opprobrious Want does skulk and hid,  
Loathed by herself, and shunned by all beside;  
And than the Term of Idle to prevent,  
She calls her sneaking Poverty, Content.—  
Thus they run on, and that Seraphic State,  
Conferred but on Heavens' choicest Favourites, Hate;  
A State, did Angels live on Earth, they'd choose,  
A State, next to the Loss of Heaven to loose,  
And only Man and Devils can abuse.  
But tell me, Sons of Earth, ye Sordid Crew,  
That would deceive our Souls by specious Show,  
And to your own, add our Destruction too;  
Tell me if Money from Perdition saves,  
Or keeps you e'er the longer from your Grave?  
Can it preserve your Bodies (though your Bed  
Be Down, and though your Tomb he hooped 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 Moment's 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 even 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 even the poorest found.  
To all Temptation he lies open still;  
For he that has the Means ne'er wants the Will,  
So, almost, by Necessity is ill.  
To Women does your Inclination lie?  
This brings you in a numberless Supply—  
But Women are so cheap that all may buy:  
To Villainy, or Wine, than, bend your Mind,  
To Sins of the most Black, or Scarlet-Kind,  
Gold is the readiest Prompter you can found;  
Dare you to act, your Cue you shall not miss,  
But down you go, though Hell the Precipice:  
He is not, than, the Favourite of Heaven,  
Where there is much, but where enough is given.  
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-faced 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 Heaven, does shoot the Gulf of Fate.  
How dismal will the flaming Prospect show,  
When Hell, and full Damnation come in view?  
In vain he'll, than, his Crimes and Follies mourn,  
The deeper plunged for thinking of Return.  
Than will he feel, and feeling Rue, how vain  
He was, to trust in cursed, ill-gotten Gain:  
These Lines (which we expect he'll laugh at here)  
Will than a sad, a dreadful Truth appear:  
Than he will wish (Ah wretched Wish! too late)  
He had believed, or feared a future State.   

Why (O ye Powers!) was Man so subject made,  
To be by Gold, that glittering Toy, betrayed?  
Or, as the Fire tries that, was that to be  
The Test and Trial of our Honesty?  
Or was it gave (that way our Judgement leans)  
To show how ill we are when we have Means?  
Or was it, merely, of Compassion sent,  
To mind us of that future Punishment  
Which it does so exactly represent?  
For as those Souls to endless Burn doomed,  
Are ever undiminish'd, unconsumed,  
That Substance, so, in Flames abides entire,  
" And lies Immortal in the Arms of Fire.  
How e'er it is, of this we may be sure,  
By Nature we've 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 forestall.  
Against our Consciences you stem the Tide;  
In vain we've Truth and Reason on our side,  
When you assume the Chair, and grow our Guide:  
We know weare wicked, yet thou goad'st us on,  
As if our Mortal Race would ne'er be run.  
Injurious Truths you to the World raveal,  
And on black Falsehoods six an endless Seal:  
The Tongue of horrid Murders thou hast tied,  
And Innocence for Gild as often decried:  
Often has the Guiltless Wretch been Gibbet-high,  
Seen swinging, and the Murderer smiling by.  
Even a chaste Kiss has Scandal brought on some,  
While Buggery has met a milder Doom.  
Nothing was e'er so wicked, Old or New,  
But thou hast done, or art prepared 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 stolen:  
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 daggled Tail her Sheets:  
To Cripples, Lepers, Moor she opens wide;  
'Tis certain (could th' Experiment be tried)  
A Dog with Two Pence would not be denied:  
But, wisely, they let taimed Flesh alone,  
Or fear the Scandal, having (as 'tis known)  
A nicer sort of Bitch's of their own.   

For thee the Husband (to himself unjust)  
Does wink at, or allow his Spouse's Lust;  
And, though he but enjoyed her just before,  
Can rise and open her Gallants the Door:  
Thus Laccared first, she's for the Labour eased,  
As Coach-Wheels for a Journey still are greased.   

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 clothes.  
In vain her Spouse believed her plighted Troth,  
Her Virgin Vows, and Sacred Marriage Oath;  
A Tie sufficient her lose Faith to bind:  
Unless a plenteous Maintenance she found,  
Wedded to him, she's Bedded to Mankind.   

For thee the Buffoon is a Foe professed  
To all that's good, and lives and dies a Beast:  
Paid to make Mirth, he cannot Witty be  
Without the help of lose Scurility,  
Of Irreligion, or of Ribaldry:  
Thus, not by Wit, but Wickedness possessed,  
He does but Damn himself to clinch his Jest.   

For Thee the Cit. not only Truth denies,  
But solemnly calls God to vouch his Lies:  
His Faith and Conscience he does pawn so fast,  
'Tis to be wondered how the Stock does last.  
As just is he that steals for his Relief,  
For what's a Tradesman but a licenced 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,  
Than 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 Moore or Lesle, 'tis answered in their Pay.   

For Thee than, 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— Could 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 Docked, fleshly, brinded Bitch;  
And all t'enjoy (and has enjoyed it long,)  
A pitiful Estate she holds by Wrong.   

What shall we say? but that of Villainy,  
Has any Bounds (as yet we ne'er could see)  
It's utmost Pillars are set up by Thee:  
In vain we would the Ills you 'cause unfold,  
If we writ Ages, half will be untold.  
Even Women, in comparison of Thee,  
Use wretched Men with some Humanity—  
They Damn One Part, and you the other Three▪   
THE END.