THE Wealthy Shopkeeper: OR, THE Charitable Citizen.  
A POEM.  
LONDON: Printed, and are to be Sold by the Booksellers. MCC.   

THE Wealthy Shopkeeper, etc.  

CANTO I.  
WITH Stars Propitious from his Birth he's blest,  
Got by some Yeoman, or the Parish Priest;  
Who strengthened by March Beer, fat Beef, and Pork,  
Is pleased sometimes to do his Neighbour's Work:  
The doubtful Offspring is, with Cost and Care,  
Trained up at School, until his Fifteenth Year;  
Whose painful Learning does at last amount,  
To construe lily's Rules, and Cast-Account.  
Designed a Parson, but the hopeful Lad,  
By kinder Fortune's destined to a Trade:  
Where darling Interest is alone carest,  
And the least Merit always thrives the best.  
In Leathern Breeches, and a course grey Coat,  
With Shoe-ties made of Thongs, to Town he's brought,  
In Wagon, or on Carriers galled Horse back,  
Mounted like Northern Tike upon a Pack.  
His Friends seek out, some crafty Dealer's found,  
To whom the Youth is, after liking, Bound;  
In hopes to learn from the experienced Knave,  
To Buy, to Sell, to Cousin, Gain, and Save;  
Fired with old Whittington's Prosperity,  
He hopes to be Lord-Mayor as well as he,  
And strokes his Master's Cat, whilst jangling Bells,  
As the Fool thinks, his wondrous Rise foretells.  
Thus by Friend's Counsel, and his own consent,  
Seven junior Years in Servitude are spent,  
Beneath a subtle crabbed Master's Care,  
Whose cunning Frauds his great Examples are;  
Till by Experience he expert is made,  
In all the sinful mysteries of his Trade.  
Thus qualified, when Time at length has broke  
The Bonds that bond him to his servile Yoke,  
No sooner Free, but eager of a Wife,  
He seeks to be Apprenticed now for Life;  
B'ing made by Seven Years Service truly fit,  
To be a Woman's Slave, a married Cit  
The Dame not with her Eyes, but Portion wounds,  
Whose Faults perhaps are numerous as her Pounds.  
For Gold, which mercenary Fools enslave,  
The Trader Charms, as Beauty does the Brave.  
At Hackney School the awkard Thing is bred,  
There taught with pains to bridle up her Head,  
Does Natures more becoming freedom lose,  
On Tiptoe juts about in high-heeled Shoes,  
And with a formal stiffness every thing outdoes.  
The Coin she brings sets up the crafty Blade,  
Careful t'improve the Interest of his Trade;  
For Wedlock's Woes, and wealthy Cares designed,  
To Shop and Wife he's slavishly confined:  
What each requires he with submission doth,  
And with severe attendance humours both.  
Thus settled in a thriving part o'th' Town,  
With cautious Steps he prosperously goes on,  
Greedy t' impose, poor-spirited and base,  
He grows, by knavish Conduct, rich apace:  
Whilst the good Man, that with a Conscience deals,  
Moves slow and follows Fortune at the heels.  
Proud is his Heart, yet humble is his Mein,  
A Saint without, but Hypocrite within.  
Each gainful Lie he does for Truth protest,  
Can his own Words to various Senses wrest:  
The way you take 'em will yourself deceive,  
You're surely choosed if you his Cant believe.  
You and the devil he strives alike to serve;  
Cheat both, and save himself by a reserve.  
All useful Frauds that to his Interest tend,  
Or false Assertions that can serve his End,  
He thinks by Custom are as lawful grown,  
As Deeds, an honest Man dare do and own.  
Watchful behind his Compter he appears,  
And there all Day imprisoned sits, for Years:  
Except when business Calls, he takes a lose,  
At Noon to Change, or Night to Coffeehouse.  
His vacant Minutes in his Shop he spends  
O'er News, to which he great attention lends;  
Till he by reading Gazettes is become,  
A Statesman in th' Affairs of Christendom:  
And sundry ways can form, to regulate  
The worst Disorders of a drooping State:  
The cause of all its Miseries can tell,  
And is as wise, in Thought, as Matchiavel:  
Does the success of each attempt foresee,  
Informs his Wife, who knows as well as he,  
What the great End of all these things shall be.  
Foresight to Fools is something hard to grant,  
Since Wisemen oft the Heavenly Knowledge want:  
Yet who can tell how Gods their Gifts bestow,  
An Ass we find has Prophesied e'er now.   

CANTO II.  

Thus he plods on for Twenty Years, or more,  
Pays Scot and Lot to th' Parson and the Poor:  
His Deal large, extravagant his Gain,  
Esteemed a sharp, but very honest Man.  
As for Religion, he concedes with two,  
A Christian he's at Church, in Shop a Jew.  
He twice each Sunday in Communion meets,  
And Prays at Home as often as he Cheats.  
Longwinded Graces at short Meals he makes,  
And blesses every Morning's Toast he breaks.  
Hears every Night his youngest Apprentice read,  
Some long hard Chapter ere he goes to Bed.  
Whilst his own Thoughts are busied to out-wit  
The World, which is the smother Epithet,  
Our well-bred City use instead of Cheat.  
Thus with mild Terms they take away the Stain,  
And call a Knave in Trade, a Cunning-Man.   

Extravagance, like Popery, he hates,  
And ne'er beyond a Dish of Coffee treats.  
Will talk and wrangle, like the meanest Scrub,  
Two Hours, to save a Farthing in his Club.  
Wine he drinks seldom, lest his Stomach's i'll,  
And when he does, he ne'er exceeds a Jill,  
Except some mighty Reason should induce  
The Niggard, to debauch beyond his use;  
As Loyalty; he altars then his stint,  
And, on the King's Birthday, drinks half a Pint.  
Which three Pence extraordinary spent,  
Is a sure sign he loves the Government.  
And that the World may see, by partial Fate,  
He's destined to be Rich and Fortunate.  
In this small tract of Time three Wives at least,  
Are rescued from his mercenary Breast,  
By that grim spirit the wretched oft invoke,  
To end their Cares and Miseries with a stroke.  
Each Help-mate worth a Thousand Pounds or more,  
Whose Portions much increase the illgot Store.  
The Wife he minds not, but adores the Pence:  
No Night's endearments does the Churl dispense.  
But kills her with the want of due Benevolence.   

Large Sums with Prentices his Bags enrich,  
And help to flatter his insatiate Itch.  
Some die, whilst others backward to obey,  
Complaining of hard usage, run away.  
Curse his thin Beer, and rail at Suffolk Cheese,  
Forsake their Interest to pursue their Ease.  
One Crop no sooner runs, but in his room,  
A new comes laden with a welcome Sum.  
Thus by good-luck, assisted with small Thought,  
His thriving Pence to numerous Pounds are brought.   

So Fortune's Minions from a low degree,  
Climb the top Branches of her golden Tree,  
There cull the precious Fruit, and with disdain,  
Behold th' unlucky Gape below in vain.   

He now looks big, and does to Power incline,  
Will no small Parish Office serve, but Fine.  
The midnight King of Clubs he scorns to be,  
And to some Barber leaves th' Authority.  
Above his Neighbours he exalts his Horn,  
And with impatience waits-till chose Church-Ward'n;  
Where Gain and Reputation jointly meet,  
And Homage makes the Office still more sweet.  
Of these two Compliments, there's none more sure,  
Bows from the Rich, and Curses from the Poor.  
He and the Parson now grow wondrous great,  
And from the Paupers' Box share many a Treat;  
Whilst the starved Wretches, whose Relief they spend,  
By shameful Wants are hastened to their End.  
When thus elected Ward'n, the Church in haste,  
Must be repaired, or else the Bells new Cast,  
A Gallery added, or an Organ raised,  
That Heaven, with Hearts more cheerful, may be praised;  
The Steeple mended, or the Dial gilt,  
The Chancel painted, or a Porch new built,  
Not through a Christian Zeal, or good Design,  
To make the Temple of the Lord more fine,  
But his own Bags with Parish Cash to fill,  
By Coz'nage in the payment of each Bill,  
With which the Workmen knavishly accord,  
And make so large, they well may bate a third,  
Then bids 'em write, received the full Contents,  
And thus discovery of the Fraud prevents.  
So those who did the Project first invent,  
Of building Bedlam and the Monument,  
Like good trusties, the Orphan's Bank ingross'd,  
And sunk much more than both the Baubles cost.  
If any curious Christian should desire,  
To know who lined the Pews, or raised 'em high,  
The World may read, inscribed upon a Stone,  
John Sharp Church-Ward'n when these good things were done  
His Word goes current, now the City round,  
Reported worth at least Ten Thousand Pound.  
Great in his Company he's also grown,  
Through every Station gradually has run,  
And greedy of that honourable sway,  
Is chosen Master next Election-Day:  
Who in his Liv'ry-Gown and Band precise,  
Looks very burly, and as gravely Wise;  
At th'upper-end of th'upper Table sits,  
And culls from every Dish his dainty Bits.  
To th' Venison and the Fowl he gives applause,  
And stoutly labours Knuckle-deep in Sauce.  
At last the Custard sorely is oppressed,  
B'ing pleased, he with full Mouth commends the Feast,  
And eats, by computation, seven Pound at least.   

Long has the Pulpit laboured hard to free  
The City, from the sin of Gluttony;  
But still her Sons heavens plenteous Gifts profane,  
And Gourmandise, like Beasts, not eat like Men.    

CANTO III.  

Now swelled with Pride, he does Majestic grow,  
And with a Nod returns his Neighbour's Bow.  
In all Affairs, talks gravely as a Judge,  
And Bellies like a Hogshead in the budge.  
Looks high, will none beneath himself regard,  
And often Dines with th' Alderman o'th' Ward.  
He's now much altered, and the Change he keeps  
Each Day as constant, as at Night he sleeps.  
Established in the World, he takes good Heart,  
And his Half-Pint he turns into a Quart.  
To th' Coffeehouse too becomes a mighty Guest,  
And reads the News five times a Day at least.  
From whence he wisely does assert, 'tis plain,  
The Duke of Anjou has no right to Spain;  
But is for so dividing on't, that some  
May go to every part of Christendom:  
Which he does easily, as a Man may cut  
A Twelfth-Cake for the King, Queen, Knave, and Slut.  
Nay, and without Book tells, by strength of Head,  
How many Dogs are lost, or Horses strayed:  
And gives the Marks, as if they'd been his own,  
From the cropped Greyhound, to the spavined Rouen.   

Being now grown wondrous Rich, he has a Call,  
By Summons, to the Blue-Coat Hospital.  
Where his wise, worshipful, and worthy Sir,  
Is chosen, for his Wealth, a Governor,  
In hopes he once will Charitable be,  
And leave 'em, when he dies, a Legacy.  
Proud of the Honour he attends each Court;  
But does, like many more, nor good nor hurt.  
Who gaze about, and with each others Eyes,  
Twenty grey Heads behold to one that's wise.   

He now so formal grows, the whole Machine,  
Moves as if Germane Clockwork ruled within.  
His Actions timed to certain Minutes are,  
And every thing he does is regular.  
I'th' Morning, when the Parish Clock strikes Five,  
He ' wakes, and thanks the Lord that he's alive.  
With Eyes turned up, Success does humbly pray,  
To all the Frauds projected for the day.  
Then raises from his Pillow his bald Crown,  
And jumps into his Slippers and his Gown;  
Steps to his Countinghouse, there sits till Eight,  
Considering how to manage things of weight,  
Precisely at which Hour he starts in haste,  
And on a Toast and Cheshire breaks his Fast.  
Which being done, he lifts up Hands and Eyes,  
And thanks the L— d, at length, in holy wise.  
Then from his Seat of Ease he rises up,  
And belching, creeps down Stairs into his Shop:  
Where for two hours the thrifty Churl abides,  
And, for some Faults, his eldest Apprentice chides;  
Directs him in the business of the Day,  
What Goods to send abroad, what Sums to Pay.  
Then to some Neighbouring Coffeehouse resorts,  
There fills his empty Head with false Reports.  
He reads and hears, and very wise is made,  
In some Affairs of State, and some of Trade:  
Sips off his Coffee, which to cool he blows,  
And o'er the wreaking Liquor hangs his Nose.  
Where the hot Steam condenses, and like Rain,  
Drops from his Snout into his Dish again.  
He drinks two Doses, till his Forehead sweats,  
And then commends it that it warms and wets.  
From thence to th' Tavern-Kitchin he adjourns,  
There takes a whet, and to his Shop returns.  
At Twelve his Dinner's on the Table set,  
His Stomach being as ready as his Meat:  
But through good Husbandry does ne'er appoint  
Above one Dish, and that a thundering Joint.  
By'mself he Dines, his Wives and Children dead,  
Lonely his Table, and alike his Bed:  
Yet for such Losses no remorse can show.  
Wealth is the Spring, whence all his Pleasures flow:  
Gold is his Heaven, no other Loss or Gain,  
Can give the Wretch delight, or cause his Pain.  
For half an Hour he feeds, and when he'as done,  
In's Elbow-Chair he takes a Nap till One.  
From thence to Change he hurries in a heat,  
Where Knaves and Fools in mighty numbers meet,  
And kindly mix the Bubble with the Cheat.  
There barters, buys and sells, receives and pays,  
And turns the Pence a hundred several ways:  
At all he ventures, to be rich and great,  
And is in every Dealing Fortunate.  
In this great Hive, where Markets rise and fall,  
And swarms of Muckworms round its Pillars crawl,  
He, like the rest, as busy as a Bee,  
Remains amongst the Hen-pecked Herd till Three.  
Then at Lloyd's Coffeehouse he never fails,  
To read their Letters, and attend the Sales.  
There buys by Candle-Inch, but when he sells,  
By what he bought by Inch, he'll gain by Ells.  
When this is over he to Shop repairs,  
And with sharp Eye inspects his Home-Affairs;  
Examines what's come in, and what's gone out,  
Who has been here, what business 'twas about.  
Then fills his Silver Box, Remember, John,  
If any asks, to th' Coffeehouse I'm gone.  
There sits an Hour, sips Ninnie Broth, and Laughs,  
To see the Neighbouring Bucks contend at Draughts.  
Tired with this Sport, he to the Sack-shop goes,  
And brisks his Thoughts with a salubrious Dose.  
There meets a Club of Elders, like himself,  
Who live like Swine, and wallow in their Pelf.  
Where, in small Measure they the Fox pursue;  
Call for Half-Pints that each may have his due:  
Which they repeat, till Sparkles in their Eyes,  
And scarlet Fevers in their Cheeks arise.  
Whilst the three Topics of their senseless Chat,  
Is first of Trade, Religion, than the State,  
Which they with wild Conceits unmercifully Bait.  
When each grave Toper has imbibed his Quart,  
Their dividends they pay, shake Hands and part.  
Now to his Turkish Soop again he comes,  
To qualify the Wine's aspiring Fumes.  
Then home he Jogs, talks smutty to his Maid,  
Eats a slight Supper, prays, and so to Bed.  
Thus he by Rule completes each Days design,  
Has Hours for Coffee business, and for Wine;  
And does the whole dispatch before Bow-Bell rings Nine.   

Cunning, Success, Severity, and Care,  
A Trader's Friends, and best Supporters are.  
For City-Knaves their Illgot Wealth possess,  
By swallowing Fools, as greater Fish the less.    

CANTO IU.  

Now Old, his Conscience to himself looks black,  
And Pain and Sorrow bend his Aged Back.  
Decay in every feeble Limb appears,  
Whilst he bemoans the number of his Years.  
He Sighs, and does, with wishful Eyes, behold  
His Piles of Silver, and vast Sums of Gold:  
But with an anxious Breast, and troubled Thought,  
Groaning, remembers how 'twas basely got.  
The Curses of old Age, the Gout and Stone,  
Torment the Wretch for the past Ills he'as done.  
Who for sweet Ease solicits Heaven in vain,  
And grows almost a Christian through his Pain.  
Still greater miseries every Hour accrue,  
And the pale Foe draws nearer to his view:  
His Nerves grow weak, and his Distempers strong,  
His Intervals more short, his Pains more long,  
His fleshy Sides from City Banquet's drawn,  
He finds consumed into a Skeleton.  
His Appetite is gone, his Breath grown short,  
And all his lively Thoughts turned al-a-mort.  
Thus in these Conflicts he gins to Rave,  
Divided 'twixt his Treasure and the Grave:  
Have I my Life in Care and Slavery spent,  
And all my restless Thoughts towards Riches bend!  
Where's my Physician? let him ease my Cough,  
And give me strength, be shall have Gold enough.  
Will nothing help me in my painful Fits?  
Physic and Riches both, alas, are Cheats!  
But should I die, O how shall I atone,  
For all the Ills and Knav'ries I have done!  
To those I've wronged, what Measures shall I take,  
To own my Gild, and Restitution make?  
Many, alas, are Strangers, others dead;  
Some Broke, and into distant Regions fled!  
No, 'tis impossible, (the more's my Woe)  
To those I've injured, I should Justice do!  
There is but one way left, as I conceive,  
My Soul from threatening Vengeance to retrieve;  
I must my Illgot Wealth to Pious uses leave.  
Send for the Scrivener, Oh! it breaks my Heart,  
Alas, dear Gold, that thee and I must part.  
The Scribe approaches, armed with pointed Quill,  
Bows, Lies, and says, he's sorry he's so iii.  
After some Talk, does all his Tools provide,  
Draws near the dying Penitent's Bedside,  
Takes his last Testament by slow degrees,  
The Heads and Purport being chief these.   

Imprimis, I bequeath Five hundred Pound,  
To buy, near London, such a Laystale Ground.  
Item, Two Thousand Pounds I do allot,  
To build an Alms-house on th'aforesaid Spot;  
Contrived commodiously to entertain,  
Twenty Old Women, and as many Men.  
Item, Ten Thousand Pounds I give, which shall,  
Endow my House of Charity withal:  
Blue Gowns, Shifts, Coals, and Candles to provide,  
And every one a Groat a Day beside.  
Item, Five hundred Pounds, with good intent,  
I give to beautify the Monument.  
And that the Mad Folks may be kept more neat,  
Five hundred more to make new Bedlam sweet.  
Item, Two thousand Pounds, with good design,  
I do bequeath, to make Paul's work more fine.  
Item, To th' Blue-Coat Hospital I give,  
Two hundred Pounds, that my good Name may live,  
And place amongst their Benefactors have.  
Hoping their Boys will sing me to my Grave.  
Item, Ten Pounds I order to be paid,  
To each Man Servant, Twenty to my Maid,  
For the great Care she's in my Sickness shown,  
And other Reasons to myself best known.  
Item, Three hundred Pounds I freely give  
Amongst the Poor, within the Ward I live.  
A Gown and Cassock to the Parish-Priest,  
For his kind Promise of eternal Rest.  
A— B— C— D— Exec'tors I appoint,  
Of this my Last and only Testament,  
That they with all exactness may fulfil,  
Each part and Clause of this my dying Will.  
When Hand and Seal has given it lawful force,  
Next Day he changes, and becomes much worse.  
Too weak to stir, he raves upon his Back,  
Death why so pale, and Conscience why so black.  
Where am I going? Prithee Nurse more Air,  
Methinks I'm sinking down the Lord knows where,  
He gasps and stretches, strives, but cannot rise,  
Then ruttles in the Throat, and rowls his Eyes,  
Thus leaves his illgot Treasure, and despairing dies.    
FINIS.