All our expense of blood and purse
Has yet produced no profit;
Men are still as bad or worse,
And will whate’er comes of it.
We’ve shuffled out and shuffled in
The person, but retain the sin,
To make our game the surer;
Yet spight of all our pains and skill,
The knaves all in the pack are still,
And ever were, and ever will,
Though something now demurer.
And it can never be so,
Since knaves are still in fashion;
Men of souls so base and low,
Meer bigots of the nation;
Whose designs are power and wealth,
At which by rapine, power, and stealth,
Audaciously they vent’re ye;
They lay their consciences aside,
And turn with every wind and tide,
Puff’d on by ignorance and pride,
And all to look like gentry.
Crimes are not punish’d ’cause they’re crimes,
But cause they’re low and little:
Mean men for mean faults in these times
Make satisfaction to tittle;
While those in office and in power
Boldly the underlings devour,
Our cobweb laws can’t hold ’em;
They sell for many a thousand crown
Things which were never yet their own,
And this is law and custom grown,
’Cause those do judge who sold ’em.
Brothers still with brothers brawl,
And for trifles sue ’em;
For two pronouns that spoil all
Contentious meum and tuum.
The wary lawyer buys and builds
While the client sells his fields
To sacrifice his fury;
And when he thinks t’ obtain his right,
He’s baffled off or beaten quite
By the judge’s will, or lawyer’s slight,
Or ignorance of the jury.
See the tradesman how he thrives
With perpetual trouble:
How he cheats and how he strives,
His estate t’ enlarge and double;
Extort, oppress, grind and encroach,
To be a squire and keep a coach,
And to be one o’ th’ quorum;
Who may with’s brother-worships sit,
And judge without law, fear, or wit,
Poor petty thieves, that nothing get,
And yet are brought before ’em.
And his way to get all this
Is mere dissimulation;
No factious lecture does he miss,
And ’scape no schism that’s in fashion:
But with short hair and shining shoes,
He with two pens and note-book goes,
And winks and writes at random;
Thence with short meal and tedious grace,
In a loud tone and public place,
Sings wisdom’s hymns, that trot and pace
As if Goliah scann’d ’em.
But when Death begins his threats,
And his conscience struggles
To call to mind his former cheats,
Then at Heaven he turns and juggles:
And out of all’s ill-gotten store
He gives a dribbling to the poor;
An hospital or school-house;
And the suborn’d priest for his hire
Quite frees him from th’ infernal fire,
And places him in th’ angel’s quire:
Thus these Jack-puddings fool us!
All he gets by’s pains i’ th’ close,
Is, that he dy’d worth so much;
Which he on’s doubtful seed bestows,
That neither care nor know much:
Then fortune’s favourite, his heir,
Bred base and ignorant and bare,
Is blown up like a bubble:
Who wondering at’s own sudden rise,
By pride, simplicity, and vice,
Falls to his sports, drink, drabs, and dice,
And make all fly like stubble.
And the Church, the other twin,
Whose mad zeal enraged us,
Is not purified a pin
By all those broils in which th’ engaged us:
We our wives turn’d out of doors,
And took in concubines and whores,
To make an alteration;
Our pulpitors are proud and bold,
They their own wills and factions hold,
And sell salvation still for gold,
And here’s our reformation!
’Tis a madness then to make
Thriving our employment,
And lucre love for lucre’s sake,
Since we’ve possession, not enjoyment:
Let the times run on their course,
For oppression makes them worse,
We ne’er shall better find ’em;
Let grandees wealth and power engross,
And honour, too, while we sit close,
And laugh and take our plenteous dose
Of sack, and never mind ’em.