The GOOD CHRISTIANS Complaint;  
OR, Poor CHARITY's Languishing Lamentation in a late long and tedious Winter;  
Seeing Pride, Envy, Hatred, Malice, with many other Vices, Nourished like Darlings in the Bosom of Mankind; whilst Love and Mercy, Truth and Chartity, did unregarded Wander like strange Pilgrims. Concluding with a Seasonable Exhortation to a Christian Life.  
Licenced according to Order.  
 
 
 

AS Truth was passing through the open Street,  
It was his chance poor Charity to meet,  
Distressed in the bitter Frost and Snow,  
And for Relief she knew not where to go.   

Grief sat Enthroned between her careful Brow●,  
For there was few that would her Cause espouse;  
Her Cheeks was nipped by sharp and freezing Wind,  
She sighing said, Is all the World unkind?   

Where are those Ancients that were wont to be  
Such Benefactors to poor Charity?  
What, are they dead, and left none of their Race,  
That are right willing to supply their place?   

I find the Widow and the Fatherless,  
With Grief and Sorrow languish in distress;  
While those that vaunt in rich Embroidered Gold,  
Will not look down their sorrows to behold.   

Those who their lives in wanton pleasures lead,  
If they behold a Man who stands in need  
Of present help, his Grief they will not mind;  
O this we do by sad experience find.   

The Youthful Gallant aught to Honour Age,  
The hoary Head, with Visage Grave and Sage:  
But yet instead of this, some swell with Pride,  
And poor decripid Age scorn and deride.   

Instead of giving them a due Respect,  
On their grey Hairs Youth often will reflect;  
And commonly reviling Language give,  
As if on Earth they were not fit to live.   

Instead of Love, which ought to rule and reign,  
Just cause we have of Malice to complain:  
Amongst us here Revenge is sweet we find,  
To such as those who are to Wrath inclined.   

One Neighbour hates to see another Thrive,  
Behold how careful are they to contrive,  
By what sly means they may their Ruin prove;  
And this is all for want of Christian Love.   

Some Men before they'll pardon an Offence,  
Will seek Revenge, tho' at a large Expense:  
But if the Lord of Love was so severe,  
What would become of sinful Mortals here?   

If Charity amongst the Sons of Men,  
Was freely entertained, how happy then  
Would Christians be, they'd readily forgive  
All Wrongs, and here in Love and Friendship live.   

But Vice instead of Virtue's Men receive,  
Which causes Charity to sigh and grieve;  
And while she utters forth her Mournful Cries,  
Distilled Tears drop from her melting Eyes.   

To see how Folly like a Darling dear,  
Is hugged, embraced, and likewise cherished here,  
Close in the very Bosom of Mankind,  
Whilst Virtue can no Habitation find.   

In Drunkenness some Persons take delight,  
With quaffing Cups in Taverns day and night.  
Thus they their Wealth in lawless pleasures spend,  
While to the Poor they'll neither give nor lend.   

Alas! we often hear the Drunkard boast,  
Who can continue longest, swallow most;  
But it were better we could hear them say,  
That for their Sins they love to Fast and Pray.   

For fear the Lord in wrath should Vengeance take,  
For why, the best of Men may chance to break  
His just Commands, but how much more does he,  
Who drowns his Soul in floods of Infamy.   

That very Sin sends thousands to the Grave,  
Their Lives the Learned Doctors cannot save;  
Yet sure I am, such Deaths would never be,  
If Men had for themselves but Charity.   

Likewise the Sin of Pride does here bear sway,  
Who Peacock-like, does gaudy Plumes display;  
And at a Blush seems beautiful and fair,  
Yet to the World she proves a fatal Snare.   

Some Persons they to Pride are so inclined,  
That night and day there's nothing else they mind;  
That time that should be spent in Righteousness,  
They here bestow to prank a Modish Dress.   

Forgetting that they are but Dust and Clay,  
Who notwithstanding all their Garments Gay,  
Must stoop to Death, and in a Grave he laid,  
Where they shall soon a Feast for Worms be made.   

Then what becomes of Grandieur, State and Pride,  
And all the Glories of the World beside?  
They lie within the limits of a Shroud,  
Then why should Man, poor Mortal Man, be Proud?   

Yet some against the Rules of solid Sense,  
Will nourish Pride, there's none shall them convince;  
And many pounds on it will spend, before  
They'd give one single Penny to the Poor.   

The very painted Harlot which they meet,  
At every crick and corner of the Street,  
They will supply with Gold and Silver bright,  
Merely for the lewd pleasures of the Night.   

But see, does not her Footsteps lead to Death?  
Is there not more than Poison in her breath?  
To taint thy Soul with the false shows of Love,  
Until she does thy utter Ruin prove.   

Those that has run this lose perfidious Race,  
Has met with Death in shame and sad disgrace;  
And did with melting Dying Tears declare,  
That Harlots fond allurements brought them there.   

Thus Varlets often bitterly complain,  
That crying sins has proved their fatal bare;  
But who is he that ever did repent,  
That he in Righteousness his days had spent.   

Complaining he had led too strict a Life,  
Too free from Malice, Envy, Spleen and Strife;  
Too Sober, likewise too Religious here,  
Or that a Conscience had been kept too clear.   

No, these are Comforts of a Dying Bed,  
When we can call to mind how we have led  
A Life on Earth, seasoned with Christian Grace,  
Which will conduct us to a resting place.   

For this vain World with grief flows like a flood,  
Here's little else but Wars and shedding Blood;  
Contending still for Superority.  
This is for want of Love and Charity.   

If we would War and lasting Glory win,  
We must like Christian Soldiers Conquer Sin,  
The greatest Enemy to all Mankind,  
So shall we then Eternal Glory find.    

LONDON, Printed for P. Brooksby, J. Deacon, J. Blare, and J. Back. 1692.