401:15,000[' ]| 401:15,000[' ]| 401:15,000[' ]| 401:15,000[' ]| 401:15,000[' ]| 401:15,000[' ]| 401:15,001[A ]| One night, as I was pondering of late 401:15,002[A ]| On all the mis'ries of my hapless Fate, 401:15,003[A ]| Cursing my rhyming Stars, raving in vain 401:15,004[A ]| At all the Pow'rs, which over Poets reign: 401:15,005[A ]| In came a ghastly Shape, all pale and thin, 401:15,006[A ]| As some poor Sinner, who by Priest had been 401:15,007[A ]| Under a long Lent's Penance, starv'd and whip'd, 401:15,008[A ]| Or par-boil'd Lecher, late from Hot-house crept: 401:15,009[A ]| Famish'd his Looks appear'd, his Eyes sunk in, 401:15,010[A ]| Like Morning-Gown about him hung his Skin: 401:15,011[A ]| A Wreath of Laurel on his Head he wore, 401:15,012[A ]| A Book, inscrib'd the*Fairy*Queen, he bore. 401:15,013[A ]| By this I knew him, rose, and bow'd, and said, 401:15,014@a | Hail reverend Ghost! all hail most sacred Shade! 401:15,015@a | Why this great Visit? why vouchsaf'd to me, 401:15,016@a | The meanest of thy British Progeny? 401:15,017@a | Com'st thou in my uncall'd, unhallow'd Muse, 401:15,018@a | Some of thy mighty Spirit to infuse? 401:15,019@a | If so; lay on thy Hands, ordain me fit 401:15,020@a | For the high Cure and Ministry of Wit: 401:15,021@a | Let me (I beg) thy great Instructions claim, 401:15,022@a | Teach me to tread the glorious paths of Fame. 401:15,023@a | Teach me (for none does better know than thou) 401:15,024@a | How, like thy self, I may immortal grow. 401:15,025[A ]| Thus did I speak, and spoke it in a strain, 401:15,026[A ]| Above my common rate, and usual vein; 401:15,027[A ]| As if inspir'd by presence of the Bard, 401:15,028[A ]| Who with a Frown thus to reply was heard, 401:15,029[A ]| In stile of Satyr, such wherein of old 401:15,030[A ]| He the fam'd Tale of Mother Hubberd told. 401:15,031@b | I come, fond Ideot, e're it be too late, 401:15,032@b | Kindly to warn thee of thy wretched Fate: 401:15,033@b | Take heed betimes, repent, and learn of me 401:15,034@b | To shun the dang'rous Rocks of Poetry: 401:15,035@b | Had I the choice of Flesh and Blood again, 401:15,036@b | To act once more in Life's tumultuous Scene; 401:15,037@b | I'd be a Porter, or a Scavenger, 401:15,038@b | A Groom, or any thing, but Poet here: 401:15,039@b | Hast thou observ'd some Hawker of the Town, 401:15,040@b | Who thro the Streets with dismal Scream and Tone, 401:15,041@b | Cries Matches, Small-coal, Brooms, Old Shoes and Boots, 401:15,042@b | Socks, Sermons, Ballads, Lies, Gazettes, and Votes? 401:15,043@b | So unrecorded to the Grave I'd go, 401:15,044@b | And nothing but the Register tell, who: 401:15,045@b | Rather that poor unheard-of Wretch I'd be, 401:15,046@b | Than the most glorious Name in Poetry, 401:15,047@b | With all its boasted Immortality: 401:15,048@b | Rather than He, who sung on Phrygia's Shore, 401:15,049@b | The Grecian Bullies fighting for a Whore: 401:15,050@b | Or He of Thebes, whom Fame so much extols 401:15,051@b | For praising Jockies, and New-market Fools. 401:15,052@b | So many now, and bad the Scriblers be, 401:15,053@b | 'Tis scandal to be of the Company: 401:15,054@b | The foul Disease is so prevailing grown, 401:15,055@b | So much the Fashion of the Court and Town, 401:15,056@b | That scarce a man well-bred in either's deem'd, 401:15,057@b | But who has kill'd, been clapt, and often rhim'd: 401:15,058@b | The Fools are troubled with a Flux of Brains, 401:15,059@b | And each on Paper squirts his filthy sense: 401:15,060@b | A leash of Sonnets, and a dull Lampoon 401:15,061@b | Set up an Author, who forthwith is grown 401:15,062@b | A man of Parts, of Rhiming, and Renown: 401:15,063@b | Ev'n that vile Wretch, who in lewd Verse each year 401:15,064@b | Describes the Pageants, and my good Lord May'r, 401:15,065@b | Whose Works must serve the next Election-day 401:15,066@b | For making Squibs, and under Pies to lay, 401:15,067@b | Yet counts himself of the inspired Train, 401:15,068@b | And dares in thought the sacred Name profane. 401:15,069@b | But is it nought (thou'lt say) in Front to stand, 401:15,070@b | With Lawrel crown'd by White, or Loggan's hand? 401:15,071@b | Is it not great and glorious to be known, 401:15,072@b | Mark'd out, and gaz'd at thro the wond'ring Town, 401:15,073@b | By all the Rabble passing up and down? 401:15,074@b | So Oats and Bedloe have been pointed at, 401:15,075@b | And every busie Coxcomb of the State: 401:15,076@b | The meanest Felons who thro Holborn go, 401:15,077@b | More eyes and looks than twenty Poets draw: 401:15,078@b | If this be all, go, have thy posted Name 401:15,079@b | Fix'd up with Bills of Quack, and publick Sham; 401:15,080@b | To be the stop of gaping Prentices, 401:15,081@b | And read by reeling Drunkards, when they piss; 401:15,082@b | Or else to lie expos'd on trading Stall, 401:15,083@b | While the bilk'd Owner hires Gazetts to tell 401:15,084@b | 'Mongst Spaniels lost, that Author does not sell. 401:15,085@b | Perhaps, fond Fool, thou sooth'st thy self in dream, 401:15,086@b | With hopes of purchasing a lasting Name? 401:15,087@b | Thou think'st perhaps thy Trifles shall remain, 401:15,088@b | Like sacred Cowley, and immortal Ben? 401:15,089@b | But who of all the bold Adventurers, 401:15,090@b | Who now drive on the trade of Fame in Verse 401:15,091@b | Can be ensur'd in this unfaithful Sea, 401:15,092@b | Where there so many lost and shipwrack'd be? 401:15,093@b | How many Poems writ in ancient time, 401:15,094@b | Which thy Fore-fathers had in great esteem, 401:15,095@b | Which in the crowded Shops bore any rate, 401:15,096@b | And sold like News-Books, and Affairs of State, 401:15,097@b | Have grown contemptible and slighted since, 401:15,098@b | As Pordidg, Fleckno, or the British Prince? 401:15,099@b | Quarles, Chapman, Heywood, Withers, had Applause, 401:15,100@b | And Wild, and Ogilby in former days; 401:15,101@b | But now are damn'd to wrapping Drugs and Wares, 401:15,102@b | And curs'd by all their broken Stationers: 401:15,103@b | And so may'st thou perchance pass up and down, 401:15,104@b | And please a while th'admiring Court and town, 401:15,105@b | Who after shalt in Duck-lane Shops be thrown, 401:15,106@b | To mould with Silvester and Shirley there, 401:15,107@b | And truck for pots of Ale next Stourbridg-Fair. 401:15,108@b | Then who'l not laugh to see th'immortal Name 401:15,109@b | To vile Mundungus made a Martyr Flame? 401:15,110@b | And all thy deathless Monuments of Wit, 401:15,111@b | Wipe Porters Tails, or mount in Paper-kite? 401:15,112@b | But, grant thy Poetry should find success, 401:15,113@b | And (which is rare) the squeamish Criticks please; 401:15,114@b | Admit it read, and prais'd, and courted be 401:15,115@b | By this nice Age, and all Posterity; 401:15,116@b | If thou expectest ought but empty Fame; 401:15,117@b | Condemn thy Hopes and Labors to the Flame: 401:15,118@b | The rich have now learn'd only to admire, 401:15,119@b | He, who to greater Favours does aspire, 401:15,120@b | Is mercenary thought, and writes to hire: 401:15,121@b | Would'st thou to raise thine, and thy Countries Fame, 401:15,122@b | Chuse some old English Hero for thy Theme, 401:15,123@b | Bold Arthur, or great Edward's greater Son, 401:15,124@b | Or our fifth Harry, matchless in Renown, 401:15,125@b | Make Agincourt and Cressy Fields outvie 401:15,126@b | The fam'd Lavinian Shores, and Walls of Troy; 401:15,127@b | What Scipio, what Maecenas would'st thou find, 401:15,128@b | What Sidney now to thy great Project kind? 401:15,129@b | Bless me! how great Genius! how each Line 401:15,130@b | Is big with Sense! how glorious a Design 401:15,131@b | Does thro the whole, and each Proportion shine! 401:15,132@b | How lofty all his Thoughts, and how inspir'd! 401:15,133@b | Pity, such wond'rous Parts are not preferr'd: 401:15,134@b | Cries a gay wealthy Sot, who would not bail 401:15,135@b | For bare five Pounds the Author out of Jail, 401:15,136@b | Should he starve there, and rot; who if a Brief 401:15,137@b | Came out the needy Poets to relieve, 401:15,138@b | To the whole Tribe would scarce a Tester give. 401:15,139@b | But fifty Guinnies for a Whore and Clap! 401:15,140@b | The Peer's well us'd, and comes off wond'rous cheap; 401:15,141@b | A Poet would be dear, and out o'th'way, 401:15,142@b | Should he expect above a Coach-man's pay: 401:15,143@b | For this will any dedicate, and lye, 401:15,144@b | And dawb the gaudy Ass with Flattery? 401:15,145@b | For this will any prostitute his Sense 401:15,146@b | To Coxcombs void of Bounty, as of Brains? 401:15,147@b | Yet such is the hard Fate of Writers now, 401:15,148@b | They're forc'd for Alms to each great Name to bow: 401:15,149@b | Fawn, like her Lap-dog, on her tawdry Grace, 401:15,150@b | Commend her Beauty, and bely her Glass, 401:15,151@b | By which she every morning primes her Face: 401:15,152@b | Sneak to his Honor, call him Wity, Brave, 401:15,153@b | And Just, tho a known Coward, Fool, or Knave, 401:15,154@b | And praise his Lineage, and Nobility, 401:15,155@b | Whose Arms at first came from the Company. 401:15,156@b | 'Tis so, 'twas ever so, since heretofore 401:15,157@b | The blind old Bard, with Dog and Bell before, 401:15,158@b | Was fain to sing for bread from door to door: 401:15,159@b | The needy Muses all turn'd Gipsies then, 401:15,160@b | And of the begging Trade e're since have been: 401:15,161@b | Should mighty Sappho in these days revive, 401:15,162@b | And hope upon her stock of Wit to live; 401:15,163@b | She must to Creswel's trudg to mend her Gains, 401:15,164@b | And let her Tail to hire, as well as Brains. 401:15,165@b | What Poet ever fin'd for Sheriff? or who 401:15,166@b | By Wit and Sense did ever Lord Mayors grow? 401:15,167@b | My own hard Usage here I need not press, 401:15,168@b | Where you have every day before your face 401:15,169@b | Plenty of fresh resembling Instances: 401:15,170@b | Great Cowley's Muse the same ill Treatment had, 401:15,171@b | Whose Verse shall live for ever to upbraid 401:15,172@b | Th'ungrateful World, that left such worth unpaid. 401:15,173@b | Waller himself may thank Inheritance 401:15,174@b | For what he else had never got by Sense. 401:15,175@b | On Butler who can think without just Rage, 401:15,176@b | The Glory and the Scandal of the Age? 401:15,177@b | Fair stood his hopes when first he came to Town, 401:15,178@b | Met every where with welcomes of Renown, 401:15,179@b | Courted and lov'd by all, with wonder read, 401:15,180@b | And promises of Princely Favour fed: 401:15,181@b | But what Reward for all had he at last, 401:15,182@b | After a Life in dull expectance pass'd? 401:15,183@b | The Wretch at summing up his mis-spent days 401:15,184@b | Found nothing left, but Poverty, and Praise: 401:15,185@b | Of all his Gains by Verse he could not save 401:15,186@b | Enough to purchase Flannel, and a Grave: 401:15,187@b | Reduc'd to want, he in due time fell sick, 401:15,188@b | Was fain to die, and be interr'd on tick: 401:15,189@b | And well might bless the Fever that was sent, 401:15,190@b | To rid him hence, and his worse Fate prevent. 401:15,191@b | You've seen what fortune other Poets share; 401:15,192@b | View next the Factors of the Theatre: 401:15,193@b | That constant Mart, which all the year does hold, 401:15,194@b | Where Staple Wit is barter'd, bought, and sold; 401:15,195@b | Here trading Scriblers for their Maintanance 401:15,196@b | And Livelihood trust to a Lott'ry-chance: 401:15,197@b | But who his Parts would in the Service spend, 401:15,198@b | Where all his hopes on vulgar breath depend? 401:15,199@b | Where every Sot, for paying half a Crown, 401:15,200@b | Has the Prerogative to cry him down? 401:15,201@b | Sidley indeed may be content with Fame, 401:15,202@b | Nor care should an ill-judging Audience damn: 401:15,203@b | But Settle, and the Rest, that write for Pence, 401:15,204@b | Whose whole Estate's an ounce, or two of Brains, 401:15,205@b | Should a thin House on the third day appear, 401:15,206@b | Must starve, or live in Tatters all the year. 401:15,207@b | And what can we expect that's brave and great, 401:15,208@b | From a poor needy Wretch, that writes to eat? 401:15,209@b | Who the success of the next Play must wait 401:15,210@b | For Lodging, Food, and Cloaths, and whose chief care 401:15,211@b | Is how to spunge for the next Meal, and where? 401:15,212@b | Hadst thou of old in flourishing Athens liv'd, 401:15,213@b | When all the learned Arts in Glory thriv'd, 401:15,214@b | When mighty Sophocles the Stage did sway, 401:15,215@b | And Poets by the State were held in pay; 401:15,216@b | 'Twere worth thy Pains to cultivate thy Muse, 401:15,217@b | And daily wonders then it might produce; 401:15,218@b | But who would now write Hackney to a Stage, 401:15,219@b | That's only thought the Nuisance of the Age? 401:15,220@b | Go after this, and beat thy wretched Brains, 401:15,221@b | And toil to bring in thankless Ideots means: 401:15,222@b | Turn o're dull Horace, and the Classick Fools, 401:15,223@b | To poach for Sense, and hunt for idle Rules: 401:15,224@b | Be free of Tickets, and the Play-houses, 401:15,225@b | To make some tawdry Act'ress there thy Prize, 401:15,226@b | And spend thy third Days gains 'twixt her clap'd Thighs. 401:15,227@b | All Trades and all Professions here abound, 401:15,228@b | And yet Encouragement for all is found: 401:15,229@b | Here a vile Emp'rick, who by Licence kills, 401:15,230@b | Who every week helps to increase the Bills, 401:15,231@b | Wears Velvet, keeps his Coach, and Whore beside, 401:15,232@b | For what less Villains must to Tyburn ride. 401:15,233@b | There a dull trading Sot, in Wealth o'regrown 401:15,234@b | By thriving Knavery, can call his own 401:15,235@b | A dozen Mannors, and if Fate still bless, 401:15,236@b | Expects as many Counties to possess. 401:15,237@b | Punks, Panders, Bawds, all their due Pensions gain, 401:15,238@b | And every day the Great Mens Bounty drain: 401:15,239@b | Lavish expence on Wit, has never yet 401:15,240@b | Been tax'd among the Grievances of State. 401:15,241@b | The Turky, Guinny, India Gainers be, 401:15,242@b | And all but the Poetick Company: 401:15,243@b | Each Place of Traffic, Bantam, Smyrna, Zant, 401:15,244@b | Greenland, Virginia, Sevil, Alicant, 401:15,245@b | And France, that sends us Dildoes, Lace, and Wine, 401:15,246@b | Vast profit all, and large Returns bring in: 401:15,247@b | Parnassus only is that barren Coast, 401:15,248@b | Where the whole Voyage and Adventure's lost. 401:15,249@b | Then be advis'd, the slighted Muse forsake, 401:15,250@b | And Cook and Dalton for thy study take: 401:15,251@b | For Fees each Term sweat in the crowded Hall, 401:15,252@b | And there for Charters, and crack'd Titles bawl: 401:15,253@b | Where M**d thrives, and pockets more each year 401:15,254@b | Than forty Laureats of the Theater. 401:15,255@b | Or else to Orders, and the Church betake 401:15,256@b | Thy self, and that thy future Refuge make: 401:15,257@b | There fawn on some proud Patron to engage 401:15,258@b | Th'Advowson of cast Punk and Parsonage: 401:15,259@b | Or sooth the Court, and preach up Kingly Right, 401:15,260@b | To gain a Prebend'ry and Mitre by't. 401:15,261@b | In fine, turn Pettifogger, Canonist, 401:15,262@b | Civilian, Pedant, Mountebank, or Priest, 401:15,263@b | Soldier, or Merchant, Fidler, Painter, Fencer, 401:15,264@b | Jack-Pudding, Juggler, Player, or Rope-Dancer: 401:15,265@b | Preach, Plead, Cure, Fight, Game, Pimp, Beg, Cheat, or Thieve; 401:15,266@b | Be all but Poet, and there's way to live. 401:15,267@b | But why do I in vain my Counsel spend 401:15,268@b | On one whom there's so little hope to mend? 401:15,269@b | Where I perhaps as fruitlessly exhort, 401:15,270@b | As Lenten Doctors, when they Preach at Court? 401:15,271@b | Not enter'd Punks from Lust they once have tried, 401:15,272@b | Not Fops and Women from Conceit and Pride, 401:15,273@b | Not Bawds from Impudence, Cowards from Fear, 401:15,274@b | Nor sear'd unfeeling Sinners past Despair, 401:15,275@b | Are half so hard, so stubborn to reduce, 401:15,276@b | As a poor Wretch, when once possess'd with Muse. 401:15,277@b | If therefore, what I've said, cannot avail, 401:15,278@b | Nor from the Rhiming Folly thee recal, 401:15,279@b | But spight of all thou wilt be obstinate, 401:15,280@b | And run thy self upon avoidless Fate; 401:15,281@b | May'st thou go on unpitied, till thou be 401:15,282@b | Brought to the Parish, Bridg, and Beggary: 401:15,283@b | Till urg'd by want, like broken Scriblers, thou 401:15,284@b | Turn Poet to a Booth, a Smithfield-Show, 401:15,285@b | And write Heroick Verse for Bartholmew. 401:15,286@b | Then slighted by the very Nursery, 401:15,287@b | May'st thou at last be forc'd to starve, like me. 401:16,000[' ]| 401:16,000[' ]| 401:16,000[' ]| 401:16,000[' ]| 401:16,000[' ]| 401:16,000[' ]| 401:16,000[' ]| 401:16,001[A ]| Tho much concern'd to leave my dear old Friend, 401:16,002[A ]| I must however his Design commend 401:16,003[A ]| Of fixing in the Country: for were I 401:16,004[A ]| As free to chuse my Residence, as he; 401:16,005[A ]| The Peaks, the Fens, the Hundreds, or Lands-end, 401:16,006[A ]| I would prefer to Fleetstreet, or the Strand. 401:16,007[A ]| What place so desart, and so wild is there, 401:16,008[A ]| Whose Inconveniencies one would not bear, 401:16,009[A ]| Rather than the Alarms of midnight Fire, 401:16,010[A ]| The falls of houses, Knavery of Cits, 401:16,011[A ]| The Plots of Factions, and the noise of Wits, 401:16,012[A ]| And thousand other Plagues, which up and down 401:16,013[A ]| Each day and hour infest the cursed Town? 401:16,014[A ]| As Fate wou'd have't, on the appointed day 401:16,015[A ]| Of parting hence, I met him on the way, 401:16,016[A ]| Hard by Mile-end, the place so fam'd of late, 401:16,017[A ]| In Prose and Verse for the great Factions Treat; 401:16,018[A ]| Here we stood still, and after Complements 401:16,019[A ]| Of course, and wishing his good Journey hence, 401:16,020[A ]| I ask'd what sudden causes made him flie 401:16,021[A ]| The once-lov'd Town, and his dear Company: 401:16,022[A ]| When, on the hated Prospect looking back, 401:16,023[A ]| Thus with just rage the good old Timon spake. 401:16,024@b | Since Virtue here in no repute is had, 401:16,025@b | Since Worth is scorn'd, Learning and Sense unpaid, 401:16,026@b | And Knavery the only thriving Trade; 401:16,027@b | Finding my slender Fortune every day 401:16,028@b | Dwindle and wast insensibly away, 401:16,029@b | I, like a losing Gamester, thus retreat, 401:16,030@b | To manage wiselier my last stake of Fate: 401:16,031@b | While I have strength, and want no staff to prop 401:16,032@b | My tott'ring Limbs, e're Age has made me stoop 401:16,033@b | Beneath its weight, e're all my Thread be spun, 401:16,034@b | And Life has yet in store some Sands to run, 401:16,035@b | 'Tis my Resolve to quit the nauseous Town. 401:16,036@b | Let thriving Morecraft chuse his dwelling there, 401:16,037@b | Rich with the Spoils of some young spend-thrift Heir: 401:16,038@b | Let the Plot-mongers stay behind, whose Art 401:16,039@b | Can Truth to Sham, and Sham to Truth convert: 401:16,040@b | Who ever has an House to Build, or Set 401:16,041@b | His Wife, his Conscience, or his Oath to let: 401:16,042@b | Who ever has, or hopes for Offices, 401:16,043@b | A Navy, Guard, or Custom-house's Place: 401:16,044@b | Let sharping Courtiers stay, who there are great 401:16,045@b | By putting the false Dice on King, and State. 401:16,046@b | Where they, who once were Grooms and Foot-boys known, 401:16,047@b | Are now to fair Estates and Honors grown; 401:16,048@b | Nor need we envy them, or wonder much 401:16,049@b | At their fantastick Greatness, since they're such, 401:16,050@b | Whom Fortune oft in her capricious freaks 401:16,051@b | Is pleas'd to raise from Kennels, and the Jakes, 401:16,052@b | To Wealth and Dignity above the rest, 401:16,053@b | When she is frolick, and dispos'd to jest. 401:16,054@b | I live in London? What should I do there? 401:16,055@b | I cannot lye, nor flatter, nor forswear: 401:16,056@b | I can't commend a Book, or Piece of Wit, 401:16,057@b | (Tho a Lord were the Author) dully writ: 401:16,058@b | I'm no Sir Sydrophel to read the Stars, 401:16,059@b | And cast Nativities for longing Heirs, 401:16,060@b | When Fathers shall drop off: no Gadbury 401:16,061@b | To tell the minute, when the King shall die, 401:16,062@b | And you know what ~~ come in: nor can I steer 401:16,063@b | And tack about my Conscience, whensoe're, 401:16,064@b | To a new Point, I see Religion veer. 401:16,065@b | Let others pimp to Courtier's Lechery, 401:16,066@b | I'll draw no City-Cuckold's Curse on me: 401:16,067@b | Nor would I do it, tho to be made great, 401:16,068@b | And rais'd to the chief Minister of State. 401:16,069@b | Therefore I think it fit to rid the Town 401:16,070@b | Of one, that is an useless member grown. 401:16,071@b | Besides, who has pretence to Favour now, 401:16,072@b | But he, who hidden Villany does know, 401:16,073@b | Whose Breast does with some burning Secret glow? 401:16,074@b | By none thou shalt preferr'd, or valued be, 401:16,075@b | That trusts thee with an honest Secresie: 401:16,076@b | He only may to great men's Friendship reach, 401:16,077@b | Who Great Men, when he pleases, can impeach. 401:16,078@b | Let others thus aspire to Dignity; 401:16,079@b | For me, I'd not their envied Grandeur buy 401:16,080@b | For all th'Exchange is worth, that Pauls will cost, 401:16,081@b | Or was of late in the Scotch Voyage lost. 401:16,082@b | What would it boot, if I, to gain my end, 401:16,083@b | Forego my Quiet, and my ease of mind, 401:16,084@b | Still fear'd, at last betray'd by my great Friend. 401:16,085@b | Another Cause, which I must boldly own, 401:16,086@b | And not the least, for which I quit the Town, 401:16,087@b | Is to behold it made the Common-shore, 401:16,088@b | Where France does all her Filth and Ordure pour: 401:16,089@b | What Spark of true old English rage can bear 401:16,090@b | Those, who were Slaves at home, to Lord it here? 401:16,091@b | We've all our Fashions, Language, Complements, 401:16,092@b | Our Musick, Dances, Curing, Cooking thence; 401:16,093@b | And we shall have their Pois'ning too e're long, 401:16,094@b | If still in the improvement we go on. 401:16,095@b | What would'st thou say, great Harry, should'st thou view 401:16,096@b | Thy gawdy flutt'ring Race of English now, 401:16,097@b | Their tawdry Cloaths, Pulvilio's, Essences, 401:16,098@b | Their Chedreux Perruques, and those Vanities, 401:16,099@b | Which thou, and they of old did so despise? 401:16,100@b | What would'st thou say to see th' infected Town 401:16,101@b | With the fowl Spawn of Foreigners o're-run? 401:16,102@b | Hither from Paris, and all Parts they come, 401:16,103@b | The Spue and Vomit of their Goals at home; 401:16,104@b | To Court they flock, and to S%*James his Square, 401:16,105@b | And wriggle into Great Mens Service there: 401:16,106@b | Foot-boys at first, till they, from wiping Shooes, 401:16,107@b | Grow by degrees the Masters of the House: 401:16,108@b | Ready of Wit, harden'd of Impudence, 401:16,109@b | Able with ease to put down either H***, 401:16,110@b | Both the King's Player, and King's Evidence: 401:16,111@b | Flippant of Talk, and voluble of Tongue, 401:16,112@b | With words at will, no Lawyer better hung: 401:16,113@b | Softer than flattering Court-Parasite, 401:16,114@b | Or City-Trader, when he means to cheat: 401:16,115@b | No Calling, or Profession comes amiss, 401:16,116@b | A needy Monsieur can be what he please, 401:16,117@b | Groom, Page, Valet, Quack, Operator, Fencer, 401:16,118@b | Perfumer, Pimp, Jack-pudding, Juggler, Dancer: 401:16,119@b | Give but the word; the Cur will fetch and bring, 401:16,120@b | Come over to the Emperor, or King: 401:16,121@b | Or, if you please, fly o're the Pyramid, 401:16,122@b | Which A***n and the rest in vain have tried. 401:16,123@b | Can I have patience, and endure to see 401:16,124@b | The paltry Forein Wretch take place of me, 401:16,125@b | Whom the same Wind and Vessel brought ashore, 401:16,126@b | That brought prohibited Goods and Dildoes o're? 401:16,127@b | Then, pray, what mighty Privilege is there 401:16,128@b | For me, that at my Birth drew English Air? 401:16,129@b | And where's the Benefit to have my Veins 401:16,130@b | Run Brittish Blood, if there's no difference 401:16,131@b | 'Twixt me, and him, the Statute Freedom gave, 401:16,132@b | And made a Subject of a true-born Slave? 401:16,133@b | But nothing shocks, and is more loath'd by me, 401:16,134@b | Than the vile Rascal's fulsom Flattery: 401:16,135@b | By help of this false Magnifying Glass, 401:16,136@b | A Louse, or Flea shall for a Camel pass: 401:16,137@b | Produce an hideous Wight, more ugly far 401:16,138@b | Than those ill Shapes, which in old Hangings are, 401:16,139@b | He'll make him strait a Beau*Garcon appear: 401:16,140@b | Commend his Voice and Singing, tho he bray 401:16,141@b | Worse than Sir Martin Mar-all in the Play: 401:16,142@b | And if he Rhime; shall praise for Standard Wit, 401:16,143@b | More scurvy sense than Pryn and Vickars Writ. 401:16,144@b | And here's the mischief, tho we say the same, 401:16,145@b | He is believ'd, and we are thought to sham: 401:16,146@b | Do you but smile, immediately the Beast 401:16,147@b | Laughs out aloud, tho he ne'er heard the jest; 401:16,148@b | Pretend, you're sad, he's presently in Tears, 401:16,149@b | Yet grieves no more than Marble, when it wears 401:16,150@b | Sorrow in Metaphor: but speak of Heat; 401:16,151@b | O God! how sultry 'tis! he'l cry, and sweat 401:16,152@b | In depth of Winter: strait, if you complain 401:16,153@b | Of Cold; the Weather-glass is sunk again: 401:16,154@b | Then he'll call for his Frize-Campaign, and swear, 401:16,155@b | 'Tis beyond Eighty, he's in Greenland here. 401:16,156@b | Thus he shifts Scenes, and oft'ner in a day 401:16,157@b | Can change his Face, than Actors at a Play: 401:16,158@b | There's nought so mean, can scape the flatt'ring Sot, 401:16,159@b | Not his Lord's Snuff-box, nor his Powder-Spot: 401:16,160@b | If he but Spit, or pick his Teeth; he'l cry, 401:16,161@b | How every thing becomes you! let me die, 401:16,162@b | Your Lordship does it most judiciously: 401:16,163@b | And swear, 'tis fashionable, if he Sneeze, 401:16,164@b | Extremely taking, and it needs must please. 401:16,165@b | Besides, there's nothing sacred, nothing free 401:16,166@b | From the hot Satyr's rampant Lechery: 401:16,167@b | Nor Wife, nor Virgin-Daughter can escape, 401:16,168@b | Scarce thou thy self, or Son avoid a Rape: 401:16,169@b | All must go pad-lock'd: if nought else there be, 401:16,170@b | Suspect thy very Stables Chastity. 401:16,171@b | By this the Vermin into Secrets creep, 401:16,172@b | Thus Families in awe they strive to keep. 401:16,173@b | What living for an English man is there, 401:16,174@b | Where such as these get head, and domineer, 401:16,175@b | Whose use and custom 'tis, never to share 401:16,176@b | A Friend, but love to reign without dispute, 401:16,177@b | Without a Rival, full, and absolute? 401:16,178@b | Soon as the Insect gets his Honor's ear, 401:16,179@b | And fly-blows some of's pois'nous malice there, 401:16,180@b | Strait I'm turn'd off, kick'd out of doors, discarded, 401:16,181@b | And all my former Service dis-regarded. 401:16,182@b | But leaving these Messieurs, for fear that I 401:16,183@b | Be thought of the Silk-Weavers Mutiny, 401:16,184@b | From the loath'd subject let us hasten on, 401:16,185@b | To mention other Grievances in Town: 401:16,186@b | And further, what Respect at all is had 401:16,187@b | Of poor men here? and how's their Service paid, 401:16,188@b | Tho they be ne'r so diligent to wait, 401:16,189@b | To sneak, and dance attendance on the Great? 401:16,190@b | No mark of Favour is to be obtain'd 401:16,191@b | By one, that sues, and brings an empty hand: 401:16,192@b | And all his merit is but made a sport, 401:16,193@b | Unless he glut some Cormorant at Court. 401:16,194@b | 'Tis now a common thing, and usual here, 401:16,195@b | To see the Son of some rich Usurer 401:16,196@b | Take place of Nobless, keep his first-rate Whore, 401:16,197@b | And for a Vaulting bout, or two give more 401:16,198@b | Than a Guard-Captains Pay: mean while the Breed 401:16,199@b | Of Peers, reduc'd to Poverty and Need, 401:16,200@b | Are fain to trudg to the Bank-side, and there 401:16,201@b | Take up with Porters leavings, Suburb-Ware, 401:16,202@b | There spend that Blood, which their great Ancestor 401:16,203@b | So nobly shed at Cressy heretofore, 401:16,204@b | At Brothel Fights in some foul Common-shore. 401:16,205@b | Produce an Evidence, tho just he be, 401:16,206@b | As righteous Job, or Abraham, or He, 401:16,207@b | Whom Heaven, when whole Nature shipwrack'd was, 401:16,208@b | Thought worth the saving, of all human Race, 401:16,209@b | Or t'other, who the flaming Deluge scap'd, 401:16,210@b | When Sodom's Lechers Angels would have rap'd; 401:16,211@b | How rich he is, must the first question be, 401:16,212@b | Next for his Manners, and Integrity, 401:16,213@b | They'l ask, what Equipage he keeps, and what 401:16,214@b | He's reckon'd worth in Money and Estate, 401:16,215@b | For Shrieve how oft he has been known to fine, 401:16,216@b | And with how many dishes he does dine: 401:16,217@b | For look what Cash a person has in store, 401:16,218@b | Just so much Credit has he, and no more: 401:16,219@b | Should I upon a thousand Bibles swear, 401:16,220@b | And call each Saint throughout the Calendar, 401:16,221@b | To vouch my Oath: it won't be taken here; 401:16,222@b | The Poor slight Heav'n and Thunderbolts (they think) 401:16,223@b | And Heav'n it self does at such Trifles wink. 401:16,224@b | Besides, what store of gibing scoffs are thrown 401:16,225@b | On one, that's poor, and meanly clad in Town; 401:16,226@b | If his Apparel seem but overworn, 401:16,227@b | His Stockings out at heel, or Breeches torn? 401:16,228@b | One takes occasion his ript Shooe to flout, 401:16,229@b | And swears 'thas been at Prison-grates hung out: 401:16,230@b | Another shrewdly jeers his coarse Crevat, 401:16,231@b | Because himself wears Point: a third his Hat, 401:16,232@b | And most unmercifully shews his Wit, 401:16,233@b | If it be old, or does not cock aright: 401:16,234@b | Nothing in Poverty so ill is born, 401:16,235@b | As its exposing men to grinning scorn, 401:16,236@b | To be by tawdry Coxcombs piss'd upon, 401:16,237@b | And made the jesting-stock of each Buffoon. 401:16,238@b | Turn out there, Friend! (cries one at Church) the Pew 401:16,239@b | Is not for such mean scoundrel Curs, as you: 401:16,240@b | 'Tis for your Betters kept: Belike, some sot, 401:16,241@b | That knew no Father, was on Bulks begot: 401:16,242@b | But now is rais'd to an Estate, and Pride, 401:16,243@b | By having the kind Proverb on his side: 401:16,244@b | Let Gripe and Cheatwel take their Places there, 401:16,245@b | And Dash the Scriv'ners gawdy sparkish Heir, 401:16,246@b | That wears three ruin'd Orphans on his back: 401:16,247@b | Mean while you in the Alley stand, and sneak: 401:16,248@b | And you therewith must rest contented, since 401:16,249@b | Almighty Wealth does put such difference. 401:16,250@b | What Citizen a Son-in-law will take, 401:16,251@b | Bred ne'er so well, that can't a Joynter make? 401:16,252@b | What man of sense, that's poor, e'er summon'd is 401:16,253@b | Amongst the Common-Council to advise? 401:16,254@b | At Vestry-Consults when does he appear, 401:16,255@b | For choosing of some Parish Officer, 401:16,256@b | Or making Leather-Buckets for the Choire? 401:16,257@b | 'Tis hard for any man to rise, that feels 401:16,258@b | His Virtue clog'd with Poverty at heels: 401:16,259@b | But harder 'tis by much in London, where 401:16,260@b | A sorry Lodging, coarse, and slender Fare, 401:16,261@b | Fire, Water, Breathing, every thing is dear: 401:16,262@b | Yet such as these an earthen Dish disdain, 401:16,263@b | With which their Ancestors, in Edgar's Reign, 401:16,264@b | Were serv'd, and thought it no disgrace to dine, 401:16,265@b | Tho they were rich, had store of Leather-Coin. 401:16,266@b | Low as their Fortune is, yet they despise 401:16,267@b | A man that walks the streets in homely Frize: 401:16,268@b | To speak the truth, great part of England now 401:16,269@b | In their own Cloth will scarce vouchsafe to go: 401:16,270@b | Only, the Statutes Penalty to save, 401:16,271@b | Some few perhaps wear Woollen in the Grave. 401:16,272@b | Here all go gaily drest, altho it be 401:16,273@b | Above their Means, their Rank, and Quality: 401:16,274@b | The most in borrow'd Gallantry are clad, 401:16,275@b | For which the Tradesmen's Books are still unpaid: 401:16,276@b | This Fault is common in the meaner sort, 401:16,277@b | That they must needs affect to bear the Port 401:16,278@b | Of Gentlemen, tho they want Income for't. 401:16,279@b | Sir, to be short, in this expensive Town 401:16,280@b | There's nothing without Mony to be done: 401:16,281@b | What will you give to be admitted there, 401:16,282@b | And brought to speech of some Court-Minister? 401:16,283@b | What will you give to have the quarter-face, 401:16,284@b | The squint and nodding go-by of his Grace? 401:16,285@b | His Porter, Groom, and Steward must have Fees, 401:16,286@b | And you may see the Tombs and Tow'r for less: 401:16,287@b | Hard Fate of Suitors! who must pay, and pray 401:16,288@b | To Livery-slaves, yet oft go scorn'd away. 401:16,289@b | Who e're at Barnet, or S%*Albans fears 401:16,290@b | To have his Lodging drop about his ears, 401:16,291@b | Unless a sudden Hurricane befal, 401:16,292@b | Or such a Wind as blew old Noll to Hell? 401:16,293@b | Here we build slight, what scarce out-lasts the Lease, 401:16,294@b | Without the help of Props and Buttresses: 401:16,295@b | And Houses now adays as much require 401:16,296@b | To be ensur'd from Falling, as from Fire. 401:16,297@b | There Buildings are substantial, tho less neat, 401:16,298@b | And kept with care both Wind and Water-tight: 401:16,299@b | There you in safe security are blest, 401:16,300@b | And nought, but Conscience, to disturb your Rest. 401:16,301@b | I am for living where no Fires affright, 401:16,302@b | No Bells rung backward break my sleep at night: 401:16,303@b | I scarce lie down, and draw my Curtains here, 401:16,304@b | But strait I'm rous'd by the next House on Fire: 401:16,305@b | Pale, and half-dead with Fear, my self I raise, 401:16,306@b | And find my Room all over in a blaze: 401:16,307@b | By this 'thas seiz'd on the third Stairs, and I 401:16,308@b | Can now discern no other Remedy, 401:16,309@b | But leaping out at Window to get free: 401:16,310@b | For if the Mischief from the Cellar came, 401:16,311@b | Be sure the Garret is the last, takes flame. 401:16,312@b | The moveables of P**ge were a Bed 401:16,313@b | For him, and's Wife, a Piss-pot by its side, 401:16,314@b | A Looking-glass upon the Cupboards Head, 401:16,315@b | A Comb-case, Candlestick, and Pewter-spoon, 401:16,316@b | For want of Plate, with Desk to write upon: 401:16,317@b | A Box without a Lid serv'd to contain 401:16,318@b | Few Authors, which made up his Vatican: 401:16,319@b | And there his own immortal Works were alid, 401:16,320@b | On which the barbarous Mice for hunger prey'd: 401:16,321@b | P**ge had nothing, all the world does know; 401:16,322@b | And yet should he have lost this Nothing too. 401:16,323@b | No one the wretched Bard would have suppli'd 401:16,324@b | With Lodging, House-room, or a Crust of Bread. 401:16,325@b | But if the Fire burn down some Great Man's House, 401:16,326@b | All strait are interessed in the loss: 401:16,327@b | The Court is strait in Mourning sure enough, 401:16,328@b | The Act, Commencement, and the Term put off: 401:16,329@b | Then we Mischances of the Town lament, 401:16,330@b | And Fasts are kept, like Judgments to prevent. 401:16,331@b | Out comes a Brief immediately, with speed 401:16,332@b | To gather Charity as far as Tweed. 401:16,333@b | Nay, while 'tis burning, some will send him in 401:16,334@b | Timber and Stone to build his House agen: 401:16,335@b | Others choice Furniture: here some rare piece 401:16,336@b | Of Rubens, or Vandike presented is: 401:16,337@b | There a rich Suit of Moreclack-Tapestry, 401:16,338@b | A Bed of Damask, or Embroidery: 401:16,339@b | One gives a fine Scritore, or Cabinet, 401:16,340@b | Another a huge massie Dish of Plate, 401:16,341@b | Or Bag of Gold: thus he at length gets more 401:16,342@b | By kind misfortune than he had before: 401:16,343@b | And all suspect it for a laid Design, 401:16,344@b | As if he did himself the Fire begin. 401:16,345@b | Could you but be advis'd to leave the Town, 401:16,346@b | And from dear Plays, and drinking Friends be drawn, 401:16,347@b | An handsom Dwelling might be had in Kent, 401:16,348@b | Surrey, or Essex, at a cheaper Rent 401:16,349@b | Than what you're forc'd to give for one half year 401:16,350@b | To lie, like Lumber, in a Garret here: 401:16,351@b | A Garden there, and Well, that needs no Rope, 401:16,352@b | Engin, or Pains to Crane its Waters up: 401:16,353@b | Water is there thro Natures Pipes convey'd, 401:16,354@b | For which no Custom, or Excise is paid: 401:16,355@b | Had I the smallest Spot of Ground, which scarce 401:16,356@b | Would Summer half a dozen Grasshoppers, 401:16,357@b | Not larger than my Grave, tho hence remote, 401:16,358@b | Far as S%*Michaels*Mount, I would go to't, 401:16,359@b | Dwell there content, and thank the Fates to boot. 401:16,360@b | Here want of Rest a nights more People kills 401:16,361@b | Than all the College, and the weekly Bills: 401:16,362@b | Where none have privilege to sleep, but those, 401:16,363@b | Whose Purses can compound for their Repose: 401:16,364@b | In vain I go to bed, or close my eyes, 401:16,365@b | Methinks the place the Middle Region is, 401:16,366@b | Where I lie down in Storms, in Thunder rise: 401:16,367@b | The restless Bells such din in Steeples keep, 401:16,368@b | That scarce the Dead can in their Church-yards sleep: 401:16,369@b | Huzza's of Drunkards, Bell-mens midnight-Rhimes, 401:16,370@b | The noise of Shops, with Hawkers early Screams, 401:16,371@b | Besides the Brawls of Coach-men, when they meet 401:16,372@b | And stop in turnings of a narrow Street, 401:16,373@b | Such a loud Medley of confusion make, 401:16,374@b | As drowsie A***r on the Bench would wake. 401:16,375@b | If you walk out in Bus'ness ne'er so great, 401:16,376@b | Ten thousand stops you must expect to meet: 401:16,377@b | Thick Crowds in every Place you must charge thro, 401:16,378@b | And storm your Passage, whereso'er you go: 401:16,379@b | While Tides of Followers behind you throng, 401:16,380@b | And, pressing on your heels, shove you along: 401:16,381@b | One with a Board, or Rafter hits your Head, 401:16,382@b | Another with his Elbow bores your side; 401:16,383@b | Some tread upon your Corns, perhaps in sport, 401:16,384@b | Mean while your Legs are cas'd all o're with Dirt. 401:16,385@b | Here you the March of a slow Funeral wait, 401:16,386@b | Advancing to the Church with solemn State: 401:16,387@b | There a Sedan and Lacquies stop your way, 401:16,388@b | That bears some Punk of Honor to the Play: 401:16,389@b | Now you some mighty piece of Timber meet, 401:16,390@b | Which tott'ring threatens ruin to the Street: 401:16,391@b | Next a huge Portland Stone, for building Pauls, 401:16,392@b | It self almost a Rock, on Carriage rowls: 401:16,393@b | Which, if it fall, would cause a Massacre, 401:16,394@b | And serve at once to murder, and interr. 401:16,395@b | If what I've said can't from the Town affright, 401:16,396@b | Consider other dangers of the Night: 401:16,397@b | When Brickbats are from upper Stories thrown, 401:16,398@b | And emptied Chamber-pots come pouring down 401:16,399@b | From Garret Windows: you have cause to bless 401:16,400@b | The gentle Stars, if you come off with Piss: 401:16,401@b | So many Fates attend, a man had need 401:16,402@b | Ne'er walk without a Surgeon by his side: 401:16,403@b | And he can hardly now discreet be thought, 401:16,404@b | That does not make his Will, e'er he go out. 401:16,405@b | If this you scape, twenty to one, you meet 401:16,406@b | Some of the drunken Scowrers of the Street, 401:16,407@b | Flush'd with success of warlike Deeds perform'd, 401:16,408@b | Of Constables subdu'd, of Brothels storm'd: 401:16,409@b | These, if a Quarrel, or a Fray be mist, 401:16,410@b | Are ill at ease a nights, and want their Rest. 401:16,411@b | For mischief is a Lechery to some, 401:16,412@b | And serves to make them sleep like Laudanum. 401:16,413@b | Yet heated, as they are, with Youth and Wine, 401:16,414@b | If they discern a train of Flamboes shine, 401:16,415@b | If a Great Man with his gilt Coach appear, 401:16,416@b | And a strong Guard of Foot-boys in the rere, 401:16,417@b | The Rascals sneak, and shrink their Heads for fear. 401:16,418@b | Poor me, who use no Light to walk about, 401:16,419@b | Save what the Parish, or the Skies hang out, 401:16,420@b | They value not: 'tis worth your while to hear 401:16,421@b | The scuffle, if that be a scuffle, where 401:16,422@b | Another gives the Blows, I only bear: 401:16,423@b | He bids me stand: of force I must give way, 401:16,424@b | For 'twere a senseless thing to disobey 401:16,425@b | And struggle here, where I'd as good oppose 401:16,426@b | My self to P*** and his Mastiffs loose. 401:16,427@b | Who's there? he cries, and takes you by the Throat, 401:16,428@b | Dog! are you dumb? Speak quickly, else my Foot 401:16,429@b | Shall march about your Buttocks: whence d'ye come, 401:16,430@b | From what Bulk-ridden Strumpet reeking home? 401:16,431@b | Saving your reverend Pimpship, where d'ye ply? 401:16,432@b | How may one have a Job of Lechery? 401:16,433@b | If you say any thing, or hold your peace, 401:16,434@b | And silently go off, 'tis all a case: 401:16,435@b | Still he lays on: nay well, if you scape so: 401:16,436@b | Perhaps he'll clap an Action on you too 401:16,437@b | Of Battery: nor need he fear to meet 401:16,438@b | A Jury to his turn, shall do him right, 401:16,439@b | And bring him in large Damage for a Shooe 401:16,440@b | Worn out, besides the pains, in kicking you. 401:16,441@b | A Poor Man must expect nought of redress, 401:16,444@b | But Patience: his best in such a case 401:16,443@b | Is to be thankful for the Drubs, and beg 401:16,444@b | That they would mercifully spare one leg 401:16,445@b | Or Arm unbroke, and let him go away 401:16,446@b | With Teeth enough to eat his Meat next day. 401:16,447@b | Nor is this all, which you have cause to fear, 401:16,448@b | Oft we encounter midnight Padders here: 401:16,449@b | When the Exchanges and the Shops are close, 401:16,450@b | And the rich tradesman in his Counting-house 401:16,451@b | To view the Profits of the day withdraws. 401:16,452@b | Hither in flocks from Shooters-Hill they come, 401:16,453@b | To seek their Prize and Booty nearer home: 401:16,454@b | Your Purse! they cry; 'tis madness to resist, 401:16,455@b | Or strive with a cock'd Pistol at your Breast: 401:16,456@b | And these each day so strong and numerous grow, 401:16,457@b | The Town can scarce afford them Jail-room now. 401:16,458@b | Happy the times of the old Heptarchy, 401:16,459@b | E're London knew so much of Villany: 401:16,460@b | Then Fatal Carts thro Holborn seldom went, 401:16,461@b | And Tyburn with few Pilgrims was content: 401:16,462@b | A less and single Prison then would do, 401:16,463@b | And serv'd the City, and the Country too. 401:16,464@b | These are the Reasons, Sir, which drive me hence, 401:16,465@b | To which I might add more, would Time dispense, 401:16,466@b | To hold you longer; but the Sun draws low, 401:16,467@b | The Coach is hard at hand, and I must go: 401:16,468@b | Therefore, dear Sir, farewel; and when the Town 401:16,469@b | From better Company can spare you down, 401:16,470@b | To make the Country with your Presence blest, 401:16,471@b | Then visit your old Friend amongst the rest: 401:16,472@b | There I'll find leisure to unlade my mind 401:16,473@b | Of what Remarques I now must leave behind: 401:16,474@b | The Fruits of dear Experience, which with these 401:16,475@b | Improv'd will serve for hints and notices; 401:16,476@b | And when you write again, may be of use 401:16,477@b | To furnish Satyr for your daring Muse. 401:07,000[' ]| 401:07,000[' ]| 401:07,000[' ]| 401:07,000[' ]| 401:07,000[' ]| 401:07,000[' ]| 401:07,000[' ]| 401:07,000[' ]| 401:07,000[' ]| 401:07,000[' ]| 401:07,000[' ]| 401:07,000[' ]| 401:07,000[' ]| 401:07,000[' ]| 401:07,001[A ]| There is not one base Act, which Men commit, 401:07,002[A ]| But carries this ill sting along with it, 401:07,003[A ]| That to the Author it creates regret: 401:07,004[A ]| And this is some Revenge at least, that he 401:07,005[A ]| Can ne'er acquit himself of Villany, 401:07,006[A ]| Tho a Brib'd Judg and Jury set him free. 401:07,007[A ]| All people, Sir, abhor (as 'tis but just) 401:07,008[A ]| Your faithless Friend, who lately broke his Trust, 401:07,009[A ]| And curse the treacherous Deed: But, thanks to Fate, 401:07,010[A ]| That has not bless'd you with so small Estate, 401:07,011[A ]| But that with patience you may bear the Cross, 401:07,012[A ]| And need not sink under so mean a Loss. 401:07,013[A ]| Besides your Case for less concern does call, 401:07,014[A ]| Because 'tis what does usually befal: 401:07,015[A ]| Ten thousand such might be alledg'd with ease, 401:07,016[A ]| Out of the common crowd of Instances. 401:07,017[A ]| Then cease for shame, immoderate regret, 401:07,018[A ]| And don't your Manhood and your Sense forget: 401:07,019[A ]| 'Tis womanish and silly to lay forth 401:07,020[A ]| More cost in Grief than a Misfortune's worth. 401:07,021[A ]| You scarce can bear a puny trifling ill, 401:07,022[A ]| It goes so deep, pray Heav'n! it does not kill: 401:07,023[A ]| And all this trouble, and this vain ado, 401:07,024[A ]| Because a Friend (forsooth) has prov'd untrue. 401:07,025[A ]| Shame o' your Beard! can this so much amaze? 401:07,026[A ]| Were you not born in good King Jemmy's days? 401:07,027[A ]| And are not you at length yet wiser grown, 401:07,028[A ]| When threescore Winters on your head have snown? 401:07,029[A ]| Almighty Wisdom gives in holy Writ 401:07,030[A ]| Wholsom Advice to all, that follow it: 401:07,031[A ]| And those, that will not its great Counsels hear, 401:07,032[A ]| May learn from meet experience how to bear 401:07,033[A ]| (Without vain strugling) Fortune's yoke, and how 401:07,034[A ]| They ought her rudest shocks to undergo. 401:07,035[A ]| There's not a day so solemn thro the year, 401:07,036[A ]| Not one red letter in the Calendar, 401:07,037[A ]| But we of some new Crime discover'd hear. 401:07,038[A ]| Theft, Murder, Treason, Perjury, what not? 401:07,039[A ]| Moneys by Cheating, Padding, poisoning got. 401:07,040[A ]| Nor is it strange; so few are now the Good, 401:07,041[A ]| That fewer scarce were left at Noah's Flood: 401:07,042[A ]| Should Sodom's Angel here in Fire descend, 401:07,043[A ]| Our Nation wants ten Men to save the Land. 401:07,044[A ]| Fate has reserv'd us for the very Lees 401:07,045[A ]| Of Time, where Ill admits of no degrees: 401:07,046[A ]| And Age so bad old Poets ne'er could frame, 401:07,047[A ]| Nor find a Metal out to give't a name. 401:07,048[A ]| This your Experience knows, and yet for all 401:07,049[A ]| On faith of God and Man aloud you call, 401:07,050[A ]| Louder than on Queen Besse's day the Rout 401:07,051[A ]| For Antichrist burnt in Effigie shout: 401:07,052[A ]| But tell me, Sir, tell me, grey-headed Boy, 401:07,053[A ]| Do you not know what Lech'ry men enjoy 401:07,054[A ]| In stollen Goods? For Gods sake don't you see 401:07,055[A ]| How they all laugh at your simplicity, 401:07,056[A ]| When gravely you forewarn of Perjury? 401:07,057[A ]| Preach up a God and Hell, vain empty names, 401:07,058[A ]| Exploded now for idle thredbare shams, 401:07,059[A ]| Devis'd by Priests, and by none else believ'd, 401:07,060[A ]| E're since great Hobbes the world has undeceiv'd? 401:07,061[A ]| This might have past with the plain simple Race 401:07,062[A ]| Of our Forefathers in King Arthur's days: 401:07,063[A ]| E're, mingling with corrupted forein Seed, 401:07,064[A ]| We learnt their Vice, and spoil'd our native Breed. 401:07,065[A ]| E're yet bless'd Albion, high in ancient Fame, 401:07,066[A ]| With her first Innocence resign'd her Name. 401:07,067[A ]| Fair dealing then, and downright Honesty, 401:07,068[A ]| And plighted Faith were good Security: 401:07,069[A ]| No vast Ingrossments for Estates were made, 401:07,070[A ]| Nor Deeds, large as the Lands, which they convey'd: 401:07,071[A ]| To bind a Trust there lack'd no formal ties 401:07,072[A ]| Of Paper, Wax, and Seals, and Witnesses, 401:07,073[A ]| Nor ready Coin, but sterling Promises: 401:07,074[A ]| Each took the other's word, and that would go 401:07,075[A ]| For currant then, and more than Oaths do now: 401:07,076[A ]| None had recourse to Chanc'ry for defence, 401:07,077[A ]| Where you forego your Right with less Expence: 401:07,078[A ]| Nor traps were set up yet for Perjurers, 401:07,079[A ]| That catch men by the Heads, and whip off Ears. 401:07,080[A ]| Then Knave and Villain, things unheard of were, 401:07,081[A ]| Scarce in a Century did one appear, 401:07,082[A ]| And he more gaz'd at than a Blazing-Star: 401:07,083[A ]| If a young Stripling put not off his Hat 401:07,084[A ]| In high respect to every Beard he met, 401:07,085[A ]| Tho a Lord's Son and Heir, 'twas held a crime, 401:07,086[A ]| That scarce deserv'd its Clergy in that time: 401:07,087[A ]| So venerable then was four year odds, 401:07,088[A ]| And grey old Heads were reverenc'd as Gods. 401:07,089[A ]| Now if a Friend once in an Age prove just, 401:07,090[A ]| If he miraculously keep his Trust, 401:07,091[A ]| And without force of Law deliver all 401:07,092[A ]| That's due, both Interest and Principal: 401:07,093[A ]| Prodigious wonder! fit for Stow to tell, 401:07,094[A ]| And stand recorded in the Chronicle; 401:07,095[A ]| A thing less memorable would require 401:07,096[A ]| As great a Monument as London Fire. 401:07,097[A ]| A man of Faith and Uprightness is grown 401:07,098[A ]| So strange a Creature both in Court and Town, 401:07,099[A ]| That he with Elephants may well be shown; 401:07,100[A ]| A Monster, more uncommon than a Whale 401:07,101[A ]| At Bridg, the last great Comet, or the Hail, 401:07,102[A ]| Than Thames his double Tide, or should he run 401:07,103[A ]| With Streams of Milk, or Blood to Gravesend down. 401:07,104[A ]| You're troubled that you've lost five hundred pound 401:07,105[A ]| By treacherous Fraud: another may be found, 401:07,106[A ]| Has lost a thousand: and another yet, 401:07,107[A ]| Double to that; perhaps his whole Estate. 401:07,108[A ]| Little do folks the heav'nly Powers mind, 401:07,109[A ]| If they but scape the knowledg of Mankind: 401:07,110[A ]| Observe, with how demure and grave a look 401:07,111[A ]| The Rascal lays his hand upon the Book: 401:07,112[A ]| Then with a praying Face, and lifted Eye 401:07,113[A ]| Claps on his Lips, and Seals the Perjury: 401:07,114[A ]| If you persist his Innocence to doubt, 401:07,115[A ]| And boggle in Belief; he'l strait rap out 401:07,116[A ]| Oaths by the volley, each of which would make 401:07,117[A ]| Pale Atheists start, and trembling Bullies quake; 401:07,118[A ]| And more than would a whole Ships crew maintain 401:07,119[A ]| To the East-Indies hence, and back again. 401:07,120@c | As God shall pardon me, Sir, I am free 401:07,121@c | Of what you charge me with: let me ne'er see 401:07,122@c | His Face in Heaven else: may these hands rot, 401:07,123@c | These eyes drop out; if e're I had a Groat 401:07,124@c | Of yours, or if they ever touch'd, or saw't. 401:07,125[A ]| Thus he'l run on two hours in length, till he 401:07,126[A ]| Spin out a Curse long as the Litany: 401:07,127[A ]| Till Heav'n has scarce a Judgment left in store 401:07,128[A ]| For him to wish, deserve, or suffer more. 401:07,129[A ]| There are, who disavow all Providence, 401:07,130[A ]| And think the world is only steer'd by chance: 401:07,131[A ]| Make God at least an idle looker on, 401:07,132[A ]| A lazy Monarch lolling in his Throne; 401:07,133[A ]| Who his Affairs does neither mind, or know, 401:07,134[A ]| But leaves them all at random here below: 401:07,135[A ]| And such at every foot themselves will damn, 401:07,136[A ]| And Oaths no more than common Breath esteem: 401:07,137[A ]| No shame, nor loss of Ears can frighten these, 401:07,138[A ]| Were every Street a Grove of Pillories. 401:07,139[A ]| Others there be, that own a God, and fear 401:07,140[A ]| His Vengeance to ensue, and yet forswear: 401:07,141[A ]| Thus to himself, says one, 401:07,141@c | Let Heaven decree 401:07,142@c | What Doom soe're, its pleasure will, of me: 401:07,143@c | Strike me with Blindness, Palsies, Leprosies, 401:07,144@c | Plague, Pox, Consumption, all the Maladies 401:07,145@c | Of both the Spittles; so I get my Prize, 401:07,146@c | And hold it sure; I'll suffer these, and more; 401:07,147@c | All Plagues are light to that of being poor. 401:07,148@c | There's not a begging Cripple in the streets 401:07,149@c | (Unless he with his Limbs has lost his Wits, 401:07,150@c | And is grown fit for Bedlam) but no doubt, 401:07,151@c | To have his Wealth would have the Rich man's Gout. 401:07,152@c | Grant Heavens Vengeance heavy be; what tho? 401:07,153@c | The heaviest things move slowliest still we know: 401:07,154@c | And, if it punish all, that guilty be, 401:07,155@c | 'Twill be an Age before it come to me: 401:07,156@c | God too is merciful, as well as just; 401:07,157@c | Therefore I'll rather his forgiveness trust, 401:07,158@c | Than live despis'd and poor, as thus I must: 401:07,159@c | I'll try, and hope, he's more a Gentleman 401:07,160@c | Than for such trivial things as these, to damn. 401:07,161@c | Besides, for the same Fact we've often known 401:07,162@c | One mount the Cart, another mount the Throne: 401:07,163@c | And foulest Deeds, attended with success, 401:07,164@c | No longer are reputed wickedness, 401:07,165@c | Disguis'd with Virtues Livery and Dress. 401:07,166[A ]| With these weak Arguments they fortifie 401:07,167[A ]| And harden up themselves in Villany: 401:07,168[A ]| The Rascal now dares call you to account, 401:07,169[A ]| And in what Court you please, joyn issue on't: 401:07,170[A ]| Next Term he'l bring the Action to be tri'd, 401:07,171[A ]| And twenty Witnesses to swear on's side: 401:07,172[A ]| And, if that Justice to his Cause be found, 401:07,173[A ]| Expects a Verdict of five hundred pound. 401:07,174[A ]| Thus he, who boldly dares the Guilt out-face, 401:07,175[A ]| For innocent shall with the Rabble pass: 401:07,176[A ]| While you, with Impudence and sham run down, 401:07,177[A ]| Are only thought the Knave by all the Town. 401:07,178[A ]| Mean time, poor you at Heav'n exclaim and rail, 401:07,179[A ]| Louder than J*** at the Bar does bawl: 401:07,180@b | Is there a Pow'r above? and does he hear? 401:07,181@b | And can he tamely Thunderbolts forbear? 401:07,182@b | To what vain end do we with Pray'rs adore? 401:07,183@b | And on our bended knees his aid implore? 401:07,184@b | Where is his Rule, if no respect be had, 401:07,185@b | Of Innocence, or Guilt, of Good, or Bad? 401:07,186@b | And who henceforth will any credit show 401:07,187@b | To what his lying Priests teach here below? 401:07,188@b | If this be Providence; for ought I see, 401:07,189@b | Bless'd Saint, Vaninus! I shall follow thee: 401:07,190@b | Little's the odds 'twixt such a God, and that, 401:07,191@b | Which Atheist Lewis us'd to wear in's Hat. 401:07,192[A ]| Thus you blaspheme and rave: But pray, Sir, try 401:07,193[A ]| What Comforts my weak Reason can apply, 401:07,194[A ]| Who never yet read Plutarch, hardly saw, 401:07,195[A ]| And am but meanly vers'd in Seneca. 401:07,196[A ]| In cases dangerous and hard of cure 401:07,197[A ]| We have recourse to Scarborough, or Lower: 401:07,198[A ]| But if they don't so desperate appear, 401:07,199[A ]| We trust to meaner Doctors skill and care. 401:07,200[A ]| If there were never in the world before 401:07,201[A ]| So foul a deed; I'm dumb, not one word more: 401:07,202[A ]| A God's name then let both your sluces flow, 401:07,203[A ]| And all th'extravagance of sorrow show; 401:07,204[A ]| And tear your Hair, and thump your mournful Breast, 401:07,205[A ]| As if your dearest First-born were deceas'd. 401:07,206[A ]| 'Tis granted that a greater Grief attends 401:07,207[A ]| Departed Moneys than departed Friends: 401:07,208[A ]| None ever counterfeits upon this score, 401:07,209[A ]| Nor need he do't; the thought of being poor 401:07,210[A ]| Will serve alone to make the eyes run o're. 401:07,211[A ]| Lost Money's griev'd with true unfeigned Tears, 401:07,212[A ]| More true, than Sorrow of expecting Heirs 401:07,213[A ]| At their dead Father's Funerals, tho here 401:07,214[A ]| The Back and Hands no pompous Mourning wear. 401:07,215[A ]| But if the like Complaints be daily found 401:07,216[A ]| At Westminster, and in all Courts abound; 401:07,217[A ]| If Bonds and Obligations can't prevail, 401:07,218[A ]| But Men deny their very Hand and Seal, 401:07,219[A ]| Sign'd with the Arms of the whole Pedigree 401:07,220[A ]| Of their dead Ancestors to vouch the Lye, 401:07,221[A ]| If Temple-Walks, and Smithfield never fail 401:07,222[A ]| Of plying Rogues, that set their Souls to sale 401:07,223[A ]| To the first Passenger, that bids a price, 401:07,224[A ]| And make their livelihood of Perjuries; 401:07,225[A ]| For God's sake why are you so delicate, 401:07,226[A ]| And think it hard to share the common Fate? 401:07,227[A ]| And why must you alone be Fav'rite thought 401:07,228[A ]| Of Heav'n, and we for Reprobates cast out? 401:07,229[A ]| The wrong you bear, is hardly worth regard, 401:07,230[A ]| Much less your just resentment, if compar'd 401:07,231[A ]| With greater out-rages to others done, 401:07,232[A ]| Which daily happen, and alarm the Town: 401:07,233[A ]| Compare the Villains who cut Throats for Bread, 401:07,234[A ]| Or Houses fire, of late a gainful Trade, 401:07,235[A ]| By which our City was in Ashes laid: 401:07,236[A ]| Compare the sacrilegious Burglary, 401:07,237[A ]| From which no place can Sanctuary be, 401:07,238[A ]| That rifles Churches of Communion-Plate, 401:07,239[A ]| Which good King Edward's days did dedicate: 401:07,240[A ]| Think, who durst steal S%*Alban's Font of Brass, 401:07,241[A ]| That Christen'd half the Royal Scotish Race: 401:07,242[A ]| Who stole the Chalices at Chichester, 401:07,243[A ]| In which themselves receiv'd the day before: 401:07,244[A ]| Or that bold daring Hand, of fresh Renown, 401:07,245[A ]| Who, scorning common Booty, stole a Crown: 401:07,246[A ]| Compare too, if you please, the horrid Plot, 401:07,247[A ]| With all the Perjuries to make it out, 401:07,248[A ]| Or make it nothing, for these last three years; 401:07,249[A ]| Add to it Thinne's and Godfrey's Murderers: 401:07,250[A ]| And if these seem but slight and trivial things, 401:07,251[A ]| Add those, that have, and would have murder'd Kings. 401:07,252[A ]| And yet how little's this of Villany 401:07,253[A ]| To what our Judges oft in one day try? 401:07,264[A ]| This to convince you, do but travel down, 401:07,255[A ]| When the next Circuit comes, with Pemberton, 401:07,256[A ]| Or any of the Twelve, and there but mind, 401:07,257[A ]| How many Rogues there are of Human kind, 401:07,258[A ]| And let me hear you, when you're back again, 401:07,259[A ]| Say, you are wrong'd, and, if you dare, complain. 401:07,260[A ]| None wonder, who in Essex Hundreds live, 401:07,261[A ]| Or Sheppy Island, to have Agues rife: 401:07,262[A ]| Nor would you think it much in Africa, 401:07,263[A ]| If you great Lips, and short flat Noses saw: 401:07,264[A ]| Because 'tis so by Nature of each place; 401:07,265[A ]| And therefore there for no strange things they pass. 401:07,266[A ]| In Lands, where Pigmies are, to see a Crane 401:07,267[A ]| (As Kites do Chickens here) sweep up a Man 401:07,268[A ]| In Armour clad, with us would make a show, 401:07,269[A ]| And serve for entertain at Bartholmew: 401:07,270[A ]| Yet there it goes for no great Prodigy, 401:07,271[A ]| Where the whole Nation is but one foot high: 401:07,272[A ]| Then why, fond Man, should you so much admire, 401:07,273[A ]| Since Knave is of our growth, and common here? 401:07,274@b | But must such Perjury escape 401:07,274[A ]| (say you) 401:07,275@b | And shall it ever thus unpunish'd go? 401:07,276[A ]| Grant, he were dragg'd to Jail this very hour, 401:07,277[A ]| To starve and rot; suppose it in your Pow'r 401:07,278[A ]| To rack and torture him all kinds of ways, 401:07,279[A ]| To hang, or burn, or kill him, as you please; 401:07,280[A ]| (And what would your Revenge it self have more?) 401:07,281[A ]| Yet this, all this would not your Cash restore: 401:07,282[A ]| And where would be the Comfort, where the Good, 401:07,283[A ]| If you could wash your Hands in's reaking Blood? 401:07,284[A ]| But, Oh, Revenge more sweet than Life! 'Tis true, 401:07,285[A ]| So the unthinking say, and the mad Crew 401:07,286[A ]| Of hect'ring Blades, who for slight cause, or none, 401:07,287[A ]| At every turn are into Passion blown: 401:07,288[A ]| Whom the least Trifles with Revenge inspire, 401:07,289[A ]| And at each spark, like Gun-powder, take fire: 401:07,290[A ]| These unprovok'd kill the next Man they meet, 401:07,291[A ]| For being so sawcy, as to walk the street; 401:07,292[A ]| And at the summons of each tiny Drab, 401:07,293[A ]| Cry, Damme! Satisfaction! draw and stab. 401:07,294[A ]| Not so of old, the mild good Socrates, 401:07,295[A ]| (Who shew'd how high without the help of Grace, 401:07,296[A ]| Well-cultivated Nature might be wrought) 401:07,297[A ]| He a more noble way of suff'ring taught, 401:07,298[A ]| And, tho he Guiltless drank the poisonous Dose, 401:07,299[A ]| Ne'er wish'd a drop to his accusing Foes. 401:07,300[A ]| Not so our great good Martyr'd King of late 401:07,301[A ]| (Could we his bless'd Example imitate) 401:07,302[A ]| Who, tho the great'st of mortal sufferers, 401:07,303[A ]| Yet kind to his rebellious Murderers, 401:07,304[A ]| Forgave, and bless'd them with his dying Prayers. 401:07,305[A ]| Thus, we by sound Divinity, and Sense 401:07,306[A ]| May purge our minds, and weed all Errors thence: 401:07,307[A ]| These lead us into right, nor shall we need 401:07,308[A ]| Other than them thro Life to be our Guide. 401:07,309[A ]| Revenge is but a Frailty, incident 401:07,310[A ]| To craz'd and sickly minds, the poor Content 401:07,311[A ]| Of little Souls, unable to surmount 401:07,312[A ]| An Injury, too weak to bear Affront: 401:07,313[A ]| And this you may infer, because we find, 401:07,314[A ]| 'Tis most in poor unthinking Woman-kind, 401:07,315[A ]| Who wreak their feeble spite on all they can, 401:07,316[A ]| And are more kin to Brute than braver Man. 401:07,317[A ]| But why should you imagin, Sir, that those 401:07,318[A ]| Escape unpunish'd, who still feel the Throes 401:07,319[A ]| And Pangs of a rack'd Soul, and (which is worse 401:07,320[A ]| Than all the Pains, which can the Body curse) 401:07,321[A ]| The secret gnawings of unseen Remorse? 401:07,322[A ]| Believe't, they suffer greater Punishment 401:07,323[A ]| Than Rome's Inquisitor's could e're invent: 401:07,324[A ]| Nor all the Tortures, Racks, and Cruelties, 401:07,325[A ]| Which ancient Persecutors could devise, 401:07,326[A ]| Nor all, that Fox his Bloody Records tell, 401:07,327[A ]| Can match what Bradshaw and Ravilliac feel, 401:07,328[A ]| Who in their Breasts carry about their Hell. 401:07,329[A ]| I've read this Story, but I know not where, 401:07,330[A ]| Whether in Hackwel, or Beard's Theatre: 401:07,331[A ]| A certain Spartan, whom a Friend, like you, 401:07,332[A ]| Had trusted with a Hundred pound or two, 401:07,333[A ]| Went to the Oracle to know if he 401:07,334[A ]| With safety might the Sum in trust deny. 401:07,335[A ]| 'Twas answer'd, No, that if he durst forswear, 401:07,336[A ]| He should e're long for's knavery pay dear: 401:07,337[A ]| Hence Fear, not Honesty, made him refund; 401:07,338[A ]| Yet to his cost the Sentence true he found: 401:07,339[A ]| Himself, his Children, all his Family, 401:07,340[A ]| Ev'n the remot'st of his whole Pedegree, 401:07,341[A ]| Perish'd (as there 'tis told) in misery. 401:07,342[A ]| Now to apply: if such be the sad end 401:07,343[A ]| Of Perjury, tho but in Thought design'd, 401:07,344[A ]| Think, Sir, what Fate awaits your treach'rous Friend, 401:07,345[A ]| Who has not only thought, but done to you 401:07,346[A ]| All this, and more; think, what he suffers now, 401:07,347[A ]| And think, what every Villain suffers else, 401:07,348[A ]| That dares, like him, be faithless, base, and false. 401:07,349[A ]| Pale Horror, ghastly Fear, and black Despair 401:07,350[A ]| Pursue his steps, and dog him wheresoe're 401:07,351[A ]| He goes, and if from his loath'd self he fly, 401:07,352[A ]| To herd, like wounded Deer, in company, 401:07,353[A ]| These strait creep in and pall his mirth and joy. 401:07,354[A ]| The choicest Dainties, ev'n by Lumly drest, 401:07,355[A ]| Afford no Relish to his sickly Tast, 401:07,356[A ]| Insipid all, as Damocles his Feast. 401:07,357[A ]| Ev'n Wine, the greatest Blessing of Mankind, 401:07,358[A ]| The best support of the dejected mind, 401:07,359[A ]| Applied to his dull spirits, warms no more 401:07,360[A ]| Than to his Corps it could past Life restore. 401:07,361[A ]| Darkness he fears, nor dares he trust his Bed 401:07,362[A ]| Without a Candle watching by his side: 401:07,363[A ]| And, if the wakeful Troubles of his Breast 401:07,364[A ]| To his toss'd Limbs allow one moments Rest, 401:07,365[A ]| Straitways the groans of Ghosts, and hideous Screams 401:07,366[A ]| Of tortur'd Spirits haunt his frightful Dreams: 401:07,367[A ]| Strait there return to his tormented mind 401:07,368[A ]| His perjur'd Act, his injur'd God, and Friend: 401:07,369[A ]| Strait he imagines you before his Eyes, 401:07,370[A ]| Ghastly of shape, prodigious of size, 401:07,371[A ]| With glaring Eyes, cleft foot, and monstrous Tail, 401:07,372[A ]| And bigger than the Giants at Guild-hall, 401:07,373[A ]| Stalking with horrid strides across the Room, 401:07,374[A ]| And guards of Fiends to drag him to his Doom: 401:07,375[A ]| Hereat he falls in dreadful Agonies, 401:07,376[A ]| And dead cold sweats his trembling Members seize: 401:07,377[A ]| Then starting wakes, and with a dismal cry, 401:07,378[A ]| Calls to his aid his frighted Family; 401:07,379[A ]| There owns the Crime, and vows upon his knees 401:07,380[A ]| The sacred Pledg next morning to release. 401:07,381[A ]| These are the men, whom the least Terrors daunt, 401:07,382[A ]| Who at the sight of their own shadows faint; 401:07,383[A ]| These, if it chance to Lighten, are agast, 401:07,384[A ]| And quake for fear, lest every Flash should blast: 401:07,385[A ]| These swoon away at the first Thunder-clap, 401:07,386[A ]| As if 'twere not, what usually does hap, 401:07,387[A ]| The casual cracking of a Cloud, but sent 401:07,388[A ]| By angry Heaven for their Punishment: 401:07,389[A ]| And, if unhurt they scape the Tempest now, 401:07,390[A ]| Still dread the greater Vengeance to ensue: 401:07,391[A ]| These the least Symptoms of a Fever fright, 401:07,392[A ]| Water high-colour'd, want of rest at night, 401:07,393[A ]| Or a disorder'd Pulse strait makes them shrink, 401:07,394[A ]| And presently for fear they're ready sink 401:07,395[A ]| Into their Graves: their time (think they) is come, 401:07,396[A ]| And Heav'n in judgment now has sent their Doom. 401:07,397[A ]| Nor dare they, tho in whisper, waft a Prayer, 401:07,398[A ]| Lest it by chance should reach th'Almighty's ear, 401:07,399[A ]| And wake his sleeping Vengeance, which before 401:07,400[A ]| So long has their impieties forbore. 401:07,401[A ]| These are the thoughts which guilty wretches haunt, 401:07,402[A ]| Yet enter'd, they still grow more impudent: 401:07,403[A ]| After a Crime perhaps they now and then 401:07,404[A ]| Feel pangs and strugglings of Remorse within, 401:07,405[A ]| But strait return to their old course agen: 401:07,406[A ]| They, who have once thrown Shame and Conscience by, 401:07,407[A ]| Ne'er after make a stop in Villany: 401:07,408[A ]| Hurried along, down the vast steep they go, 401:07,409[A ]| And find, 'tis all a Precipice below. 401:07,410[A ]| Ev'n this perfidious Friend of yours, no doubt, 401:07,411[A ]| Will not with single wickedness give out; 401:07,412[A ]| Have patience but a while, you'l shortly see 401:07,413[A ]| His hand held up at Bar for Felony: 401:07,414[A ]| You'l see the sentenc'd Wretch for Punishment 401:07,415[A ]| To Scilly Isles, or the Caribbes sent: 401:07,416[A ]| Or (if I may his surer Fate divine) 401:07,417[A ]| Hung like Boroski, for a Gibbet-Sign: 401:07,418[A ]| The may you glut Revenge, and feast your Eyes 401:07,419[A ]| With the dear object of his Miseries: 401:07,420[A ]| And then at length convinc'd, with joy you'l find 401:07,421[A ]| That the just God is neither deaf, nor blind.