The Tradesman's Complaint Upon the Hardness of the Times, Deadness of Trade, and scarcity of Money.  
Wherein he sighs and makes great moan,  
How trading is (almost) fled and gone:  
He entreats all men in each degree,  
For help in this his want and misery.  
To the Tune of, In Summer time, etc. Or, Fancies Phoenix.  
 

OH where are now these golden times.  
When gold was counted needless things?  
None loved his Neighbour for a self end,  
But once and always stood his friend:  
But now through want times altered are,  
Each in himself a man of War:  
Trading being dead and Money scant,  
Is the subject of this sad Complaint.   

The time has been, that in this Land,  
A man's word was as good as his Band:  
The time is now as you may see,  
New Faith hath killed Old Honesty:  
There is so much hatred one toth' other,  
That there is none that loves his brother:  
Oh all good Men of each degree,  
Learn to live in Love and Unity.   

The time has been in this City round,  
A man might in a morning take a pound:  
The time is now, though in's shop he stay,  
Yet scarce takes twelve pence all the day:  
Trade so dead, and money scant,  
Is subject of this sad complaint:  
Oh all good men of each degree,  
Redress our Country's misery.   

The times have been, what tradesmen gained,  
Hath decently their Charge maintained;  
The time is now through trades decay,  
In street they beg, oh welladay!  
Trading is so dead, and money scant,  
Is subject of this sad Complaint:  
Oh all good men of each degree,  
Help to redress our misery.   
 
 

The time has been éach Rich Man's door,  
Was seldom shut against the poor;  
The time is now, some wives go fine,  
They care not though the beggar pine:  
Trading being dead makes times so hard,  
Poor people cry without regard:  
Oh all good men of each degree,  
Help to regard our misery.   

In elder times it was indeed,  
The Rich would help the poor man's need:  
The time is now, so themselves be served,  
They care not if poor people be starved:  
Trading being dead, makes times so hard,  
The Rich the Poor do not regard:  
Oh all good men of each degree,  
Help to redress our misery.   

For dearth of trade all men complain,  
How can poor men their Charge maintain?  
Hardness of times mankes many rue,  
How can we give Ceasar his due:  
Money's so scant through trades decay,  
Which makes poor tradesmen sigh and say;  
Oh all good men of each degree,  
Help to release our misery.   

The Courtier he complains for gold;  
To whom the tradesmen wares hath sold,  
And having run so on his score,  
He's forced alas to shut up door:  
times being so hard through trades decay,  
It makes poor tradesmen sign and say;  
Oh all good Men of each degree,  
Help us in our necessity.   

The poor Country Man he doth complain,  
Of the loss of his Cattle and Grain,  
Rents being so dear, and Money scant,  
Makes him mourn forth this sad complaint:  
Which makes him sigh and make great moan,  
Whose grief would melt a heart of stone:  
Oh all good men of each degree,  
Help, help, us in our poverty.   

That trade may flourish here again,  
That plenty may amongst us reign,  
That great men's charity may show,  
And pay poor men what they do owe:  
It is my prayer, and let all men,  
To this Petition, say, Amen:  
Oh all good men of each degree,  
Learn to live in Love and Unity.    
FINIS.  

Printed for J. Conniers, near the Marshalseas in Southwark.