THE MIRACLES Performed by MONEY; A POEM.  
By the Author of the Humours of a Coffee-house.  
'tis Virtue, Wit, and Worth, and all,  
That Men Divine, and Sacred call:  
For what is Worth in any thing,  
But so much Money as 'twill bring?  Hudibras part 2d. Canto 1st. 
LONDON: Printed, and are to be sold by the Booksellers of London and Westminster: 1692.   

EPISTLE DEDICATORY TO Sir Martin Monyless.  

SInce my very good Friend, but now under the Hatches,  
And as poor as a Seller of Brooms and Card-matches,  
Thou hast left off thy Quibbles, thy Songs, and thy Catches.   

Prithee leave off thy Sober dull Plodding and thinking,  
And into thy Pockets get Ready and Chink in,  
And then I'll allow thee a Time for good Drinking.   

For till then be thy Parts ne'er so Modish and Florid,  
Till with Darby's and Smelts thou thy Purse hast well stored,  
There's a Fool in thy Face, and an Ass in thy Forehead.   

What a Pox do I care for a Monyless Fellow?  
If he speaks ne'er so Witty he seems but to Bellow,  
If he wants the true Blessings of White and of Yellow.   

Till thou Money hast got, thy Brisk Humour will falter,  
Till thou hast it ne'er spare neither Temple nor Altar,  
But a Word by the by, Have a care of the Halter.   

But let happen What will, get some Money how ere,  
Cog, Flatter, Dissemble, Lie, Swear, and Forswear,  
And attempt any Action a brave Fellow dare.   

Be a Pimp, or a Pander, a Sharper, or Bully,  
A Decoy, a Trappan, or a Counterfeit Cully,  
And never give o'er till thou'st done the trick fully.   

Swear old Men are young, and Queen Blouse is a Beauty,  
Undo pretty Virgins, tempts Wives from their Duty,  
And be true to all Interests you think will be true t'ye.   

Outrail a Bilked Coachman, Out-banter a Wit,  
Out-lye a News-writer, out-promise a Cit.,  
Strive thyself to outdo if the Thing thou canst hit.   

More Women deceive than did Wickham of late,  
Religion or Bawdy or any thing Prate,  
And put on all Shapes so thou get but the Plate.   

Prithee never want Money what ever may lack thee,  
For when thou hast Money no Friends will forsake thee,  
But if thou'rt without it the Devil may take thee.   
Thy Friend (if thou wilt be thine own)  
Tom of Ten Thousand.   

WHat mighty Magic does the World betwitch,  
That all Mankind thus Covet to be Rich?  
Daily plough up the raging stormy Main,  
From East to West, and all in chase of Gain;  
Climb highest Hills, through sandy Deserts go,  
Over parched Plains, and Mountains clad in Snow;  
The various Heats and Colds of Climates scorn,  
Of both the Tropics, Cancer, Capricorn;  
Deprive their Nights of Rest, their Days of Pleasure,  
Grow Hoary-headed in pursuit of Treasure;  
Swear and Forswear, Equivocate and Lie,  
Stick at no Oaths nor blackest Perjury;  
Sons kill their Fathers, Brother fight with Brother,  
And all Mankind prove Wolves to one another;  
Friends sheathe their Swords in Bosoms of their Friends,  
When with kind Love their Interest contends;  
With wild confusion all the World spread o'er,  
Occasioned by the search of Shining Oar:  
The Secret would some Spirit but unfold,  
From whence proceeds this mighty thirst of Gold?  
Cease Foolish Muse, thy Admiration cease,  
Or to know nothing of the World confess;  
For 'tis a certain Maxim plain and clear,  
Want of a Blessing makes a Blessing dear:  
What Moneyed Man wracked with Gout, would not,  
With a young healthful Beggar change his Lot?  
With wholesome Scraps a vigorous health maintain,  
Rather than lie on Velvet Couch in pain?  
If Love of Money be the Root of Evil,  
The want of it is certainly the Devil:  
A Truth which ever was and ever will  
Be known to all the Brethren of the Quill:  
Their Purses like Sprink-tides are sometimes swelled,  
And to the Brims with smiling Angels filled:  
But Tides of Ebb do soon their Pockets drain,  
And then they're at low Water mark again.  
Since than it is not by the Gods allowed,  
Poets should always find so great a good,  
we'll rail at what is not within our Power,  
As did the Fox, who swore the Grapes were sour;  
Recount the various Wonders hourly done,  
By moneys strange effective Force alone,  
And the surprising Miracles unfold,  
Done by the Virtue of Almighty Gold.  
Room for my Lord there— be uncovered Slave,  
Bear back ye Vermin, cries a saucy Knave,  
Walking before a Spark whose vast Estate  
Did's Title first, and then Respect create:  
Whose Grandfather perhaps was one so civil,  
For Gold to go directly to the Devil,  
That his dear Honey suckle Babe might be  
A Knight, or else a Man of Quality:  
See how he struts— observe the humble grin,  
Which by his Flatterers is returned again;  
Mark how they bow with most fantastic cringes,  
As if their Bodies moved by Springs and Hinges.  
A supple Slave than whispers in his Ear,  
My Lord, Gad judge me, if you dont appear,  
The most accomplished Person in the World,  
Your Shape so clean, your Wigg so neatly Curled;  
Nay you're the only Man at Court, which ere  
Knew how to Dress— By Gad my Lord you wear  
Your clothes with such becoming Negligence,  
As if you only put them on by Chance;  
The Ladies all have laid their Hearts at stake,  
And sigh and languish only for your sake.  
At this my Lord affords a gracious Smile,  
Listening to's fulsome Flattery all the while.  
By this time to attend his Levee, comes  
A needy Poet, twirling of his Thumbs,  
And looking simply humbly craves, my Lord,  
The mighty Honour would be pleased t'afford,  
As to become a Patron to his Play,  
That is, in other words, be pleased to pay  
For fulsome Praise, cramped in a florid Story,  
In the Epistle called Ded'catory:  
By a small nod my Lord assents he will,  
Which does the scribbling Wretch will pleasure fill:  
Homeward he goes by studious Arts to raise,  
For gilded Quality some tinsel Praise.  
Nay too too oft do Men of Wit and Parts,  
Well read in Men, in Languages and Arts,  
Expose, for want of necessary Pence,  
To moneyed Blockheads, their Immortal Sense;  
Who by that Means acquire a lasting Fame,  
And to Posterity transmit a Name;  
Which in Oblivion's Records else had stood,  
With Names of Millions dead before the Flood.  
'Mong Wonders to which Money makes pretence,  
'Tis strange it should supply the want of Sense!  
Yet is an Idiot by Fortune blest,  
With a full Pocket, or a well crammed Chest;  
And by the means of his so large Increase,  
Made Knight o'th' Shire, or Justice of the Peace:  
At Quarter-Sessions when he sits in State,  
Among his Brethren, to Assess and Rate,  
Tho ne'er so dull and flat, yet what he says,  
Is of Bystanders sure to gain the Praise;  
'Tis much if when their Commendations Swell,  
They say not — Spoken like an Oracle.  
Or if in mixed Converse, where Business, News,  
Or other Talk does Company amuse,  
The Man should chancc to Interfere and Prate,  
(For nothing noted but his great Estate)  
If by the Hour he Nonsense should discourse,  
(Than which there cannot be a greater Curse  
In Conversation) yet they listen all,  
And greedily snatch up the Words which fall  
From's Mouth, as if they were in modern Sense,  
The choicest Pearls and Flowers of Eloquence.  
But if on him the Itch of Scribbling seize,  
And's labouring Thoughts can never be at ease,  
Till he in Print has to the World put forth,  
A Piece (as he esteems) of mighty Worth,  
Be th' Subject what it will of any kind,  
It will not fail a vast Applause to find;  
For there was never a Scribbling Moneyed Fop,  
But found some greater Fool to cry him up;  
If not much Prais d, it will at least be said,  
The Author wrote for Pleasure, not for Bread.  
Is Verse the Subject? Tho' each Stanza chimes,  
With as much Spirit as do Belmen's Rhimes;  
Tho' ten times duller every Line appears,  
Than Crowns late Daeneids, or John Bunyans Verse:  
Yet his flat Nonsense will the World prefer,  
Before the Lines of Cowley, Rochester,  
Waller or Denham, or the late admired  
Oldham, who wrote as with a Muse inspired.  
If Politics his empty Pages swell,  
He understands much more than Matchivel;  
And does from newer Principles derive ye  
The grounds of Rule than Hobbs in Book de Cive:  
Nay, he how far the very bounds can show,  
Prerogative and Privilege may go;  
And he has often, tho' t'has been in's Power,  
Declined the Place of Privy Councillor.  
Does History amuse his idle Hours?  
He does with more Solidity discourse  
Of that grave Subject, than can ere be read,  
In Works of Baker, Speed or Hollinshed.  
If to mixed Subjects he his Pen applies,  
What ere he writes is sure to find success;  
His Flatterers will every thing admire,  
Each Line, each Sentence, sets their Souls on fire;  
All is Divine, there's not a Word amiss,  
With joy they shake, and weep with tenderness:  
By this his Vanity so high is flown,  
He thinks no Works so shining as his own:  
If you in number of his Friends he takes,  
Of's Works to you he then a Present makes;  
For which, as 'tis the Fashion now a days,  
You must be sure the new Composure praise,  
And tell him, that the sottish World had lain  
In Ignorance, had not his Learned Pen  
The Fogs their Reason clouded, soon dispelled,  
And with rich thoughts their empty judgements filled:  
Tho after all it is these Scribblers fate,  
(For little else but noisy Praise they get)  
To have their very Works so much esteemed,  
By Flatterers, to be at last condemned,  
To wrap up Spice, Tobacco, Soap and Plumbs,  
Under Pies put, or wipe the Readers B— s;  
And thus each lofty Line, each mighty Thought,  
Is to its final Execution brought.  
If one by Fortune plac d in low Degree,  
Reduced to Want and needy Poverty,  
Living in Country Village all alone,  
His Name to Parish-Register scarce known,  
Should by some strange and unexpected Fate,  
Become the Heir to Money or Estate,  
And is, his part the better to maintain,  
Ambitious to be thought a Gentleman;  
Tho' by the ancient Stock from whence he came,  
He was a Beggar both by Sire and Dam;  
Yet Learned Heralds can for Money show,  
From some rich Family he first did grow:  
Tho, for some time it may have been obscure,  
His Ancestors came in with th' Conqueror.  
If store of Or and Argent he has got,  
He shall not fail to have 'em in his Coat;  
Tho' Dormant Couchant long his Name did rest,  
He shall have Lion Rampant for his Crest;  
And if he'll pay but briskly for the thing,  
From John of Gaunt his Pedigree they'll bring  
Thus store of Money and a vast Estate,  
Can of a Clown a Gentleman create.  
But now another Scene appears in view,  
A Scene which known Experience says is true:  
Suppose then Reader, that my Friend and I,  
Even in the days of Childish Infancy  
Such Freedoms take, we afterwards improve,  
To highest Offices of Friendly Love;  
One Soul our different Bodies seems to move,  
Alike we hate, alike approve, and love:  
All lawful Pleasures we alike partake,  
And each is free to Die for tother's sake;  
No Task thought difficult, nor Danger great,  
May firmer Unions of our Souls create;  
And what crowns all, we both have Money store,  
He vastly Rich, I far from being-Poor.  
But if by Fortune's strange capricious Spite,  
On my Estate some sweeping Mischief light,  
Some raging Fire my blooming Hopes prevent,  
Or Loss by Sea, or other Accident  
Strips me of all those Riches once I had,  
My Diet mean, myself more meanly clad,  
Pensive and Thoughtful all day long I walk,  
And to myself in broken Murmurs talk,  
Having no Comfort but this Thought alone,  
Tho Fortune's fled, yet Friendship is not gone;  
Unwilling yet of Friends to ask Relief,  
For there's a kind of Modesty in Grief,  
As yet within the compass of my Breast,  
My Wants, my Troubles, and Afflictions rest;  
Yet if at last my cruel Creditors,  
Join all their Forces, and unite their Powers  
To crush me, and by Sergeants rude Arrest,  
I'm safely locked in Ludgate's stony Chest;  
But yet in Prison give my Thoughts some scope,  
And entertain myself with starving Hope,  
That my rich Friend, since now I stand in need,  
Will prove a real, cordial Friend indeed;  
I write; no Answer comes: I write again,  
Till I to Stump have almost worn my Pen;  
No Friend appears, my dying Hopes to cherish,  
There I may Lie and Rot, and Starve and Perish;  
At last, when I've more Messengers employed,  
Then patient Job with their sad Tales anoy'd,  
He sends— (for should himself in Person come,  
He'd be Infected in a Prison-room)  
And lets me know, that he is very sorry  
From Walls of Stone, to hear my dismal Story,  
But had poor luckless I two days before  
Sent the sad News, he could with mighty store  
Have eased my wants, and though his heart was willing,  
He could not now equip me with a Shilling;  
For on the Morning of that very Day  
I sent, he'd paid all's ready Cash away:  
Or else— when he the Message has read o'er,  
Pretends he never heard my Name before:  
Lord how I wonder who this Man should be,  
That sends this sad complaining Note to me?  
I knew indeed a Wealthy Man o'th' Name,  
But cannot guests the Person whence this came:  
Tho' he and I a thousand times have tried  
Pleasures, when sailing with a Moneyed Tide,  
But now my Person's utterly forgot,  
And I in Gaol condemned alive to rot:  
Strange Logic! Can the Walls of Prison frame,  
And prove the same Man is not now the same?  
But if by some most unexpected fate,  
By some Friend's Death I'm left a good Esntate,  
And from Confinement sally once again,  
Of my Acquaintance, what a mighty Train,  
Who either shunned or knew me not before,  
Come cringing now, and wait upon my Door!  
In Antichamber wait till I shall rise,  
And with their Wishes my good Fortune bless,  
While each one strives to do what ere he can,  
For me the fortunate, the happy Man;  
With folding Arms my Body they entwine,  
Their Fortunes, Services, their Souls are mine,  
With winged haste at my Commands they run,  
All court the Rising, none the Setting Sun.  
If Gold in Friendship can such Wonders show,  
In Love, what strange amazing Things 'twil do?  
Not Wit nor Virtue half so much can move,  
As powerful Gold in Arts of making Love:  
A thousand Accidents tempt Flesh and Blood,  
But powerful Guinea cannot be withstood,  
For 'tis a Truth which Mankind will confess,  
That ready Money speaks all Languages.  
Am I than AEsop more deformed in Shape,  
A prating, chattering, laughing, amorous Ape,  
And justly can pretend no other Sense,  
But noisy Nonsense and Impertinence;  
If I with Guineas have my Pockets Lind,  
What signifies the Shape of Corpse or Mind?  
The Ladies will Adore any Person more,  
Than that of Handsome F— g, heretofore.  
I am their Dearest Dear, their Fubbs their Honey  
Their Angels nay their very Heaven for Money:  
I am more welcome to their Longing Arms,  
Than is a Man possessed with Thousand Charms,  
Of Person, Birth, Wit, Valour, though I want  
Each Quality, I am their Darling Saint.  
For Money, Husbands will their Wives Decoy,  
And teach 'em to Commit the Guilty Joy;  
Ride out of Town, that the Gallant may come  
To taste forbidden Pleasures in his Room.  
And if he unawares should chance to be  
Spectator of their Amorous Privacy,  
Is Deaf and Blind, and cannot hear nor see;  
Nay some Obliging Cuckolds will do more,  
Bring the Spark home and after hold the Door,  
Think Horns no Shame, if Money by them come,  
And Boast and Glory in their Cuckoldom.  
Mothers for this their Daughters will betray  
To Man of Quality, if he but pay.  
With Charming Guineas in the Balance laid,  
What a poor Trifle is a Maidenhead?  
'tis found and lost, 'tis lost and found again,  
As is the Cully found amongst moneyed Men:  
To those will pay for such forbidden Crimes,  
It shall be sold 'bove thirty several times,  
And the cracked Girl more timorous appear,  
Than Lucrece was when Tarquin Ravished her.  
Too well this Infamous deceit is known:  
To the Lewd Bawds of this Luxurious Town,  
When a Raw Country Girl away they lead,  
And turn the Penny by her Maidenhead.  
How many Jilts, Cracks, Prostitutes and Whores  
Their Sex's scandal, Nature's common Shores,  
Are there in Town (sad Wretches as they are)  
Who once were very virtuous, young and Fair?  
And who had virtuous been this very Hour,  
Had it not been for Gold's Almighty Power.  
Gold first their Blindfold Reason led astray,  
(For who its Mighty Power can disobey?  
Gold to forbidden Paths First brought them in,  
And Gold alone informed 'em how to Sin.  
The Greatest Blessing which the God's have sent,  
T'enrich Mankind withal, is True Content,  
Which humble Poor as well as Rich enjoy;  
Life's only Cordial, Life's true Solid Joy,  
Yet this rare Jewel is too often Sold,  
And every Day Exchanged for Shining Gold.  
Can it be thought an old Grey withered Sot,  
Who has in's Grave one Foot already got,  
With Palsies, Aches, Rheums, and Gout oppressed,  
No Pith in's Back, nor Vigour in his Breast,  
Can be a welcome Present to the Arms  
Of a Young Creature blest with Thousand Charms?  
Yet this we see is almost Daily done,  
And fair young Phillis, by old Damon won;  
Whilst other Shepherds Witty Gay and Young,  
Who by her side have tuned their Pipes and Sung,  
Wanting the Blessing of a large Estate,  
Which Settlement and Jointure may Create,  
Are slighted— whilst the Youthful Charming Bride,  
Lies by an old Man's unperforming Side.  
The Price of Beauty what Man does not know?  
Alas the Value on't is fallen so low,  
Each petty Chapman now with Purse in Hand,  
Has it at Minutes Warning to Command.  
Women like Books and Pictures now a Days,  
Are put to Sale, and who the Price can raise,  
Not he whose Merits decently can Crave 'em,  
No, no, the Lucky He bids most shall have 'em:  
Youth, Wit and Valour will not now prevail:  
But yet Almighty Money cannot fail.  
With what Impatience have I often seen,  
A Youthful Bride, who never saw Eighteen,  
Running with nimble haste to opening Door,  
To meet her Good old Man of Sixty four,  
Clap her Warm, Soft, Plump Rosy Cheek to his,  
And nestle through his Beard to get a Kiss?  
Play with her Hand upon his Grisly Chin,  
And softly say, my Dear where have you been?  
Well, you're unkind, a Naughty Man I vow,  
I thought you'd been at home two Hours ago,  
Dinner's quite spoiled— But yet for you my Dear,  
I have reserved some Lobsters and Caveir  
I almost Longed to see you— He mean while,  
For these Endearments can't afford a Smile,  
But in his Clownish way says — you've your Will,  
But Pleasure must give Place to Business still:  
Gripewell and I have got this very Morning,  
A thousand Pounds— a Sum not worth the Scorning,  
And though the Times are Cloudy like the Wether,  
At honest Ned's took one half pint together.  
Come come— and there perhaps he leads her in,  
A Sight would almost tempt a Man to Sin,  
And from him, since he values not the Pleasure,  
To snatch the Lovely Young and Tempting Treasure.  
For Money thus will Virgins throw their Charms  
Within the Circle of an Old Man's Arms;  
Tho' Frost to Fruits, and Mildew to the Corn,  
To Armour Rust, or Fits to Child new Born,  
Cannot more Fatal and Destructive prove,  
Than Age to Beauty, Impotence to Love:  
Her youthful Heat new Blood in him inspires,  
While he by's Coldness Damps her warmer Fires,  
His aged Limbs do Gout or Palsy Rack;  
She must by Sympathy his Ills partake,  
Becoming in short time (a thing most Common)  
A Sickly Pining Drooping old young Woman.  
Shift we the Scene now to a close Alcove,  
And see a youthful Spark pretending Love,  
(For sure no Man can be so void of Sense  
To think 'tis any thing but mere pretence)  
To an old withered Beldame of threescore,  
Of swelling Bags blest with a Numerous store:  
What Mighty Wonders cannot Money do?  
Tho She Deformed as Mother Shipton show,  
He Gripes her Palsied Hand, and vows and swears  
No Beauty at the Court with her compares,  
So soft her Skin, her Eyes such Lustre hold,  
Nature designed she never should grow old,  
While she with Smiles, (which are indeed Grimace)  
Adding more Wrinkles to her Wainscoat Face,  
Half opening of her Mouth to her new Lover,  
Fearing she should the want of Teeth discover,  
Cries, truly Sir, I wonder you should spy,  
One Charm in me to please your curious Eye:  
I'm old, 'tis true, but yet there was a time,  
Tho 'tis long since, when I was in my Prime:  
This Face had Charms— Ah Madam! pray forbear,  
Say not it had, they're still too plainly there,  
Says he, and pushing on his amorous Rage,  
Tells her, that Wine and Beauty gain by Age.  
She overcome, poor Thing, by his soft Words,  
At last to take him for her Spouse affords:  
To Church they go, on which the World may say  
(That truly now December Weds with May;  
While he receives a Pension during Life,  
To Do the drudgery of an old Rich Wife.  
'twere Endless, should I but attempt to Run,  
O'er all the Miracles by Money done.  
What Mighty Magic is there in a Fee,  
To turn the very Scales of Equity?  
Wrong shall be Right, and Right again be Wrong,  
If but with Gold you touch the Lawyer's Tongue,  
And the Coifd Sergeant, when at Bar he pleads,  
Shall speak or true or false, as Guinea leads;  
And Votes of Scarlet Judges bought and sold,  
If purchased by the Mighty Power of Gold.  
The Roman Church herself is not ashamed,  
To say the Poor, and only they are Damned;  
The Rich shall stay short time in Purgatory,  
But no poor Wretch directly went to Glory:  
No, he must fry in Purgatory Kitchen,  
Till Money can his Soul from thence be fetching.  
No College Doctor in his Guilded Coach,  
The Cottages of Poor will ere approach.  
Physician's come not where there are no Fees,  
None cure or plead in Forma pauperis.  
Money what Wonders can it not effect?  
Who ever failed that had it, of Respect?  
'Twill make the Blind Man see, the Lame Man walk,  
Make Deaf Men hear, and Dumb Men loudly talk;  
'Twill make an old Man have a youthful Skin,  
And Beldames, old as Aldgate, not Sixteen;  
Make Cowards Valiant, and make Blockheads Wise,  
And from low Dunghills make th'ignoble Rise;  
Get Pardons for, and Licences to Sin,  
Tempt Virgins, and unwary Youth draw in;  
Depress the Good and Virtuous with Disgrace,  
And set up Vice to Lord it in their place:  
But ah! what Pen its Miracles can tell,  
Which Heaven purchases and saves from Hell?  
FINIS.