THE CITIZENS COMPLAINT For want of TRADE, OR The Tradesman's OUTCRY for lack of MONEY.  
By G. M.  

Being the poor distressed Tradesman's Cry,  
Down with all Sects; but up with Loyalty:  
Making it to appear in these his Rhimes,  
That 'tis bad men alone that make bad Times.   
London, Printed in the Year, 1663.   


Thos. Jolley Esqʳ. F. S. A.   blazon or coat of arms   

THE CITIZENS Complaint for want of Trade.  

ROom for a Tradeseman; let him tread the Stage  
With these his Rhimes in this declining Age:  
What though no Player; yet, I think, as free  
To speak his mind as any Players be:  
Room then, I say, for him who does intend  
To speak of that which once, perhaps, may mend;  
And that's the Times; for never were they worse,  
As by Experience knows my empty Purse.  
Trading is dead, is every man's complaint;  
The Shop keepers themselves begin to faint  
For want of Trade; And as for my own part,  
The ●●nt thereof doth pierce my very heart:  
M●●…e's my life; for what I got thereby  
Wo●●● once maintain myself and family;  
〈…〉 alas, the Times are grown so dead,  
That by my Trade I scarcely can get bread:  
And more than that, my Wife, the Times b'ing bad,  
〈…〉 Rails (enough to make one mad)  
My Children too for clothes at me do call,  
And I want Money, which is worst of all:  
My Alewives now begin to whet their Teeth;  
The Butcher cries, Now pay me for my Beef;  
The Baker swears; what though the Times are dead,  
He will be paid; for do you think his Bread  
Did cost him nothing; i'faith if I'll not do't,  
He knows a way whereby to force me to't:  
My Landlord too, I had almost forgot,  
Who for his Rent doth swear he'll trust me not:  
This is my case; for Lodging, Drink, and Diet,  
I cannot rest, nor live one hour in quiet:  
I'm like a Hare, I'm forced to keep my bounds,  
I dare not stir for fear o'th' Counter-hounds;  
For if they take me, there I'm sure to lie  
Till I am sucked to an anatomy:  
Oh cruel Times! thou mak'st me keep my Cell,  
I dare not stir for fear of Counter Hell:  
Dun upon Dun about my doors do lurch,  
My Body to devour; As for the Church,  
I dare not go to; for indeed they say,  
They can Arrest me on the Sabbath day:  
DUN take 'em all; I cannot rest at night,  
The thoughts of them my body doth affright;  
Sometimes me thinks, within a Dream, I see  
Two lusty Catchpoles in pursuit of me,  
Which to avoid I make what hast I can,  
Thinking to scape those Bugbears unto man;  
But yet alas, I could not run so fast,  
But these two Hounds o'ertook poor Hare at last;  
And I, with striving, out of sleep did start,  
Which finding but a Dream was glad at heart.   

Thus am I plagued both day and night with Duns,  
Whose loud Reports affright me worse than Guns:  
One calls me Rogue; the next a drunken Sot;  
Another swears I shall i'th' Counter rot;  
Then comes a Ludgate Wolf, who straight doth swear,  
I ne'er should stir could she but catch me there;  
(Were I to choose my Prison, it should be  
Either of these, before the Marshalsee;  
God keep me thence; the Keepers may be well  
Compared to Devils, and their Prison Hell.)  
These are those Cats that daily haunt my house;  
I dare not stir; but like unto a Mouse,  
Am forced to home; (I fear 'em more than death)  
And dare not peep lest they Arrest my breath:  
But what am I that thus should stand in fear  
Of you my Hostess for your Ale and Beer?  
Go hang yourselves, I value not your Threats,  
I'll make't appear you are all cursed Cheats;  
You Nick and Froth; besides, unto my Score  
(Each time you view't) you add a penny more:  
Nay more than this, he that will run o'th' trust  
Oft drinks the Tappings; which is most unjust:  
What is't I owe? pray tell it to my friend;  
You shall be paid when as the Times do mend;  
Had I but Money I would pay you all,  
And rid myself from your accursed thrall:  
In the mean while I wish you to forbear  
Your Thunderclaps; oh do not curse nor swear  
At me your Debtor; rather learn to pray  
Your Trusting-faith may keep you till I pay;  
Which when 't'will'twill be I know not, he that can,  
Pay what he has not is a cunning man:  
Oh cursed MONEY! the want of thee indeed  
Is the chief cause from whence my woes proceed:   

MONEY! What is't? Oh rare! that very Thing  
Makes some to smile, to some doth sorrow bring:  
It is a Jewel (though but made of drois)  
That's highly prized; but yet it brings a cross  
Where it is wanting. O that man is blest,  
In his conceit, that is but full possessed  
Of this same Coin. Can there be greater bliss,  
Then for a man each morn and night to kiss  
His lovely Bags, which are heaped up with Gold,  
Besides whole Chests of Silver daily told?  
'Tis some men's God, who only take delight  
To sit and count their Bags from morn till night;  
They loved so well, they scarcely can afford  
To break one Bag to set upon their Board  
A Meal of Meat that's fit to entertain  
A friend or two; no, no, they cry their gain  
Is very small; though oftentimes they take  
Ten in the Hundred; they no Conscience make  
Of what they do; I dare be bold to say,  
They'd lend the Devil, were they but sure he'd pay  
Them double Interest; yet I'm sure they are  
Th'devil's Brokers; though he doth forbear  
Them at the present; he'll at last lay hold  
Upon the Usurer himself and not his Gold;  
For he it is that all this while did trade  
With th'Devils stock; for which there must be made  
A Restitution, which will never be  
Until the Usurer the Devil see;  
Then must those Bonds be canceled also,  
Which he prized more than soul and body too;  
For he that loves his Money more then either,  
The Devil and he deserve to live together.   

Others likewise, this Jewel fain would have;  
But not content, more more they still do crave,  
Still hoarding up, but never will disburse  
Unless it be per force, and then a curse  
Sometimes doth follow, as indeed if they  
Must have all gratis, but yet never pay:  
Nay more than that, one thing I most admire,  
The Hireling too, from such oft wants his hire.   

Others there be, that Money love so well,  
That with the same they'll neither buy nor sell;  
But hoard it up; This being still their cry,  
The Times are fickle; but Disloyalty  
Makes them afraid; 'tis not the Times that make  
Poor Tradesman's hearts (for want of Trading) ache;  
No, no, 'tis not the Times, it is bad men;  
Which if but good the Times would mend again:  
These, these, are only Saints; but can there be  
A perfect Saint that has no Charity?  
No, no; 'tis not alone the Brotherhood  
Can make them Saints; they likewise must do good  
Unto the Kingdom; And they're bound by Law  
To love the King; of Him to stand in awe;  
Which can't be done, unless they do approve  
Of His just Laws, submitting to His Love;  
Were this but so, you need not then to fear  
But Trade would mend, and every thing appear  
In its full Lustre; Then the poor would cry,  
God blesses us because of Unity.   

money's a Jewel; yet there's few can find  
Within that Jewel a contented mind:  
Money's a World; for many men there be  
In getting it do gain Eternity;  
As he that picks a Pocket; do you think  
That he would venture so, were't not for Chink?  
And he that steals a Horse, if once got free,  
Minds not his Horse; he must converted be  
Into this Money: Others that oft do stand  
Upon the Road, 'tis Money they demand:  
Murder and Treason; both these grounded be  
On, So much Coin for this thy Treachery:  
Money's the Law; for he that's full possessed  
Of Gold and Silver, always fares the best:  
Money's the Judge; 'tis that condems them all,  
You took so much, and therefore Hang you shall:  
Money's the Gallows and the Hangman both;  
Were't not for that, Sir Dun, he would be loath  
To tie them up; And had they been content  
With what they had, they need not now repent  
For what they did: This Money makes some sad.  
Others rejoice; and some it makes quite mad:  
Money makes some rich; some it maketh poor:  
Money makes Rogues; 'Tis Money makes a Whore:  
Money makes Knaves; the reason's very plain;  
They'd ne'er turn Knaves, were't not for knavish gain:  
Money makes men Fools, (as daily you may see)  
'Tis for the same that men Jack-Puddings be;  
Are these not Fools indeed? Nay, simple Elves,  
That thus for Money will transform themselves  
From men to Devils, assuming any shape,  
And, like to Monkeys, at you grin and gape;  
They get their means by fooling; yet some say,  
He that is Fool is wisest of the Play;  
But my weak judgement tells me't can't be so;  
For, Who more fool than he that makes him so:  
Money makes a Man; Money makes a Wife:  
Money breeds content; Want it breedeth strife:  
Money is all things; what is there in this Land,  
But this thing Money has it at command?  
'Tis Money that I want; for Trading it is bad;  
'Tis for the want thereof that makes my heart so sad;  
I think, therefore, my wisest course will be,  
To seek Redress for this my poverty;  
Which how I know vot; but, would Strife once end,  
And men turn good; the TIMES, no doubt, would mend.   
FINIS.