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         G. M., fl. 1663.
      
       
         
           1663
        
      
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             The citizens complaint for want of trade, or The trades-mans outcry for lack of money By G. M.
             G. M., fl. 1663.
          
           8 p.
           
             [s.n.],
             London :
             printed in the year, 1663.
          
           
             In verse.
             Reproduction of the original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Money -- England -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
     
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           THE
           CITIZENS
           COMPLAINT
           For
           want
           of
           TRADE
           ,
           OR
           The
           Trades-mans
           OUTCRY
           for
           lack
           of
           MONEY
           .
        
         
           By
           
             G.
             M.
          
           
        
         
           
             Being
             the
             poor
             distressed
             Tradesman's
             Cry
             ,
          
           
             Down
             with
             all
             Sects
             ;
             but
             up
             with
             Loyalty
             :
          
           
             Making
             it
             to
             appear
             in
             these
             his
             Rhimes
             ,
          
           
             That
             't
             is
             bad
             men
             alone
             that
             make
             bad
             Times
             .
          
        
         
           London
           ,
           Printed
           in
           the
           Year
           ,
           1663.
           
        
      
       
         
         
           
             
               Thos.
               Jolley
               Esq.
               r
               F.
               S.
               A.
               
            
             blazon or coat of arms
          
        
         
         
         
         
      
    
     
       
         
         
         
           THE
           CITIZENS
           Complaint
           for
           want
           of
           Trade
           .
        
         
           
             ROom
             for
             a
             Tradeseman
             ;
             let
             him
             tread
             the
             Stage
          
           
             With
             these
             his
             Rhimes
             in
             this
             declining
             Age
             :
          
           
             What
             though
             no
             Player
             ;
             yet
             ,
             I
             think
             ,
             as
             free
          
           
             To
             speak
             his
             mind
             as
             any
             Players
             be
             :
          
           
             Room
             then
             ,
             I
             say
             ,
             for
             him
             who
             does
             intend
          
           
             To
             speak
             of
             that
             which
             once
             ,
             perhaps
             ,
             may
             mend
             ;
          
           
             And
             that
             's
             the
             Times
             ;
             for
             never
             were
             they
             worse
             ,
          
           
             As
             by
             Experience
             knows
             my
             empty
             Purse
             .
          
           
             
               Trading
               is
               dead
            
             ,
             is
             every
             mans
             complaint
             ;
          
           
             The
             Shop
             keepers
             themselves
             begin
             to
             faint
          
           
             For
             want
             of
             Trade
             ;
             And
             as
             for
             my
             own
             part
             ,
          
           
             The
             ●●nt
             thereof
             doth
             pierce
             my
             very
             heart
             :
          
           
             M●●…e's
             my
             life
             ;
             for
             what
             I
             got
             thereby
          
           
             Wo●●●
             once
             maintain
             my self
             and
             family
             ;
          
           
             〈…〉
             alas
             ,
             the
             Times
             are
             grown
             so
             dead
             ,
          
           
             That
             by
             my
             Trade
             I
             scarcely
             can
             get
             bread
             :
          
           
             And
             more
             then
             that
             ,
             my
             Wife
             ,
             the
             Times
             b'ing
             bad
             ,
          
           
             〈…〉
             Rails
             (
             enough
             to
             make
             one
             mad
             )
          
           
             My
             Children
             too
             for
             Cloaths
             at
             me
             do
             call
             ,
          
           
             And
             I
             want
             Money
             ,
             which
             is
             worst
             of
             all
             :
          
           
           
             My
             Alewives
             now
             begin
             to
             whet
             their
             Teeth
             ;
          
           
             The
             Butcher
             cries
             ,
             Now
             pay
             me
             for
             my
             Beef
             ;
          
           
             The
             Baker
             swears
             ;
             what
             though
             the
             Times
             are
             dead
             ,
          
           
             He
             will
             be
             paid
             ;
             for
             do
             you
             think
             his
             Bread
          
           
             Did
             cost
             him
             nothing
             ;
             y'faith
             if
             I
             'le
             not
             do
             't
             ,
          
           
             He
             knows
             a
             way
             whereby
             to
             force
             me
             to
             't
             :
          
           
             My
             Landlord
             too
             ,
             I
             had
             almost
             forgot
             ,
          
           
             Who
             for
             his
             Rent
             doth
             swear
             hee
             'l
             trust
             me
             not
             :
          
           
             This
             is
             my
             case
             ;
             for
             Lodging
             ,
             Drink
             ,
             and
             Diet
             ,
          
           
             I
             cannot
             rest
             ,
             nor
             live
             one
             hour
             in
             quiet
             :
          
           
             I
             'm
             like
             a
             Hare
             ,
             I
             'm
             forc'd
             to
             keep
             my
             bounds
             ,
          
           
             I
             dare
             not
             stir
             for
             fear
             o
             th'
             Counter-hounds
             ;
          
           
             For
             if
             they
             take
             me
             ,
             there
             I
             'm
             sure
             to
             lye
          
           
             Till
             I
             am
             suck'd
             to
             an
             Anatomye
             :
          
           
             Oh
             cruel
             Times
             !
             thou
             mak'st
             me
             keep
             my
             Cell
             ,
          
           
             I
             dare
             not
             stir
             for
             fear
             of
             Counter
             Hell
             :
          
           
             Dun
             upon
             Dun
             about
             my
             doors
             do
             lurch
             ,
          
           
             My
             Body
             to
             devour
             ;
             As
             for
             the
             Church
             ,
          
           
             I
             dare
             not
             go
             to
             ;
             for
             indeed
             they
             say
             ,
          
           
             They
             can
             Arrest
             me
             on
             the
             Sabbath
             day
             :
          
           
             DUN
             take
             'em
             all
             ;
             I
             cannot
             rest
             at
             night
             ,
          
           
             The
             thoughts
             of
             them
             my
             body
             doth
             affright
             ;
          
           
             Sometimes
             me
             thinks
             ,
             within
             a
             Dream
             ,
             I
             see
          
           
             Two
             lusty
             Catch-poles
             in
             pursuit
             of
             me
             ,
          
           
             Which
             to
             avoid
             I
             make
             what
             hast
             I
             can
             ,
          
           
             Thinking
             to
             scape
             those
             Bugbears
             unto
             man
             ;
          
           
             But
             yet
             alas
             ,
             I
             could
             not
             run
             so
             fast
             ,
          
           
             But
             these
             two
             Hounds
             o'retook
             poor
             Hare
             at
             last
             ;
          
           
             And
             I
             ,
             with
             striving
             ,
             out
             of
             sleep
             did
             start
             ,
          
           
             Which
             finding
             but
             a
             Dream
             was
             glad
             at
             heart
             .
          
        
         
           
             Thus
             am
             I
             plagu'd
             both
             day
             and
             night
             with
             Duns
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             loud
             Reports
             affr●ght
             me
             worse
             then
             Guns
             :
          
           
             One
             calls
             me
             Rogue
             ;
             the
             next
             a
             drunken
             Sot
             ;
          
           
             Another
             swears
             I
             shall
             i
             th'
             Counter
             rot
             ;
          
           
           
             Then
             comes
             a
             Ludgate
             Wolf
             ,
             who
             strait
             doth
             swear
             ,
          
           
             I
             ne're
             should
             stir
             could
             she
             but
             catch
             me
             there
             ;
          
           
             (
             Were
             I
             to
             chuse
             my
             Prison
             ,
             it
             should
             be
          
           
             Either
             of
             these
             ,
             before
             the
             Marshalsee
             ;
          
           
             God
             keep
             me
             thence
             ;
             the
             Keepers
             may
             be
             well
          
           
             Compar'd
             to
             Devils
             ,
             and
             their
             Prison
             Hell.
             )
          
           
             These
             are
             those
             Cats
             that
             daily
             haunt
             my
             house
             ;
          
           
             I
             dare
             not
             stir
             ;
             but
             like
             unto
             a
             Mouse
             ,
          
           
             Am
             forc'd
             to
             home
             ;
             (
             I
             fear
             e'm
             more
             then
             death
             )
          
           
             And
             dare
             not
             peep
             lest
             they
             Arrest
             my
             breath
             :
          
           
             But
             what
             am
             I
             that
             thus
             should
             stand
             in
             fear
          
           
             Of
             you
             my
             Hostess
             for
             your
             Ale
             and
             Beer
             ?
          
           
             Go
             hang
             your selves
             ,
             I
             value
             not
             your
             Threats
             ,
          
           
             I
             'le
             mak
             't
             appear
             you
             are
             all
             cursed
             Cheats
             ;
          
           
             You
             Nick
             and
             Froth
             ;
             besides
             ,
             unto
             my
             Score
          
           
             (
             Each
             time
             you
             view
             't
             )
             you
             adde
             a
             penny
             more
             :
          
           
             Nay
             more
             then
             this
             ,
             he
             that
             will
             run
             o
             th'
             trust
          
           
             Oft
             drinks
             the
             Tappings
             ;
             which
             is
             most
             unjust
             :
          
           
             What
             is
             't
             I
             owe
             ?
             pray
             tell
             it
             to
             my
             friend
             ;
          
           
             You
             shall
             be
             paid
             when
             as
             the
             Times
             do
             mend
             ;
          
           
             Had
             I
             but
             Money
             I
             would
             pay
             you
             all
             ,
          
           
             And
             rid
             my self
             from
             your
             accursed
             thrall
             :
          
           
             In
             the
             mean
             while
             I
             wish
             you
             to
             forbear
          
           
             Your
             Thunder-claps
             ;
             oh
             do
             not
             curse
             nor
             swear
          
           
             At
             me
             your
             Debtor
             ;
             rather
             learn
             to
             pray
          
           
             Your
             Trusting-faith
             may
             keep
             you
             till
             I
             pay
             ;
          
           
             Which
             when
             'twilbe
             I
             know
             not
             ,
             he
             that
             can
             ,
          
           
             Pay
             what
             he
             has
             not
             is
             a
             cunning
             man
             :
          
           
             Oh
             cursed
             MONEY
             !
             the
             want
             of
             thee
             indeed
          
           
             Is
             the
             chief
             cause
             from
             whence
             my
             woes
             proceed
             :
          
        
         
           
             MONEY
             !
             What
             is
             't
             ?
             Oh
             rare
             !
             that
             very
             Thing
          
           
             Makes
             some
             to
             smile
             ,
             to
             some
             doth
             sorrow
             bring
             :
          
           
             It
             is
             a
             Jewel
             (
             though
             but
             made
             of
             drois
             )
          
           
             That
             's
             highly
             priz'd
             ;
             but
             yet
             it
             brings
             a
             cross
          
           
           
             Where
             it
             is
             wanting
             .
             O
             that
             man
             is
             blest
             ,
          
           
             In
             his
             conceit
             ,
             that
             is
             but
             full
             possest
          
           
             Of
             this
             same
             Coin.
             Can
             there
             be
             greater
             bliss
             ,
          
           
             Then
             for
             a
             man
             each
             morn
             and
             night
             to
             kiss
          
           
             His
             lovely
             Bags
             ,
             which
             are
             heap'd
             up
             with
             Gold
             ,
          
           
             Besides
             whole
             Chests
             of
             Silver
             daily
             told
             ?
          
           
             'T
             is
             some
             mens
             God
             ,
             who
             only
             take
             delight
          
           
             To
             sit
             and
             count
             their
             Bags
             from
             morn
             till
             night
             ;
          
           
             They
             lov't
             so
             well
             ,
             they
             scarcely
             can
             afford
          
           
             To
             break
             one
             Bagge
             to
             set
             upon
             their
             Board
          
           
             A
             Meal
             of
             Meat
             that
             's
             fit
             to
             entertain
          
           
             A
             friend
             or
             two
             ;
             no
             ,
             no
             ,
             they
             cry
             their
             gain
          
           
             Is
             very
             small
             ;
             though
             oftentimes
             they
             take
          
           
             Ten
             in
             the
             Hunder'd
             ;
             they
             no
             Conscience
             make
          
           
             Of
             what
             they
             do
             ;
             I
             dare
             be
             bold
             to
             say
             ,
          
           
             They
             'd
             lend
             the
             Devil
             ,
             were
             they
             but
             sure
             he
             'd
             pay
          
           
             Them
             double
             Int'rest
             ;
             yet
             I
             'm
             sure
             they
             are
          
           
             Th'Devils
             Brokers
             ;
             though
             he
             doth
             forbear
          
           
             Them
             at
             the
             present
             ;
             he
             'l
             at
             last
             lay
             hold
          
           
             Upon
             the
             Usurer
             himself
             and
             not
             his
             Gold
             ;
          
           
             For
             he
             it
             is
             that
             all
             this
             while
             did
             trade
          
           
             With
             th'Devils
             stock
             ;
             for
             which
             there
             must
             be
             made
          
           
             A
             Restitution
             ,
             which
             will
             never
             be
          
           
             Until
             the
             Usurer
             the
             Devil
             see
             ;
          
           
             Then
             must
             those
             Bonds
             be
             cancelled
             also
             ,
          
           
             Which
             he
             priz'd
             more
             then
             soul
             and
             body
             too
             ;
          
           
             For
             he
             that
             loves
             his
             Money
             more
             then
             either
             ,
          
           
             The
             Devil
             and
             he
             deserve
             to
             live
             together
             .
          
        
         
           
             Others
             likewise
             ,
             this
             Jewel
             fain
             would
             have
             ;
          
           
             But
             not
             content
             ,
             more
             more
             they
             still
             do
             crave
             ,
          
           
             Still
             hoarding
             up
             ,
             but
             never
             will
             disburse
          
           
             Unless
             it
             be
             per
             force
             ,
             and
             then
             a
             curse
          
           
             Sometimes
             doth
             follow
             ,
             as
             indeed
             if
             they
          
           
             Must
             have
             all
             gratis
             ,
             but
             yet
             never
             pay
             :
          
           
           
             Nay
             more
             then
             that
             ,
             one
             thing
             I
             most
             admire
             ,
          
           
             The
             Hireling
             too
             ,
             from
             such
             oft
             wants
             his
             hire
             .
          
        
         
           
             Others
             there
             be
             ,
             that
             Money
             love
             so
             well
             ,
          
           
             That
             with
             the
             same
             they
             'l
             neither
             buy
             nor
             sell
             ;
          
           
             But
             hoard
             it
             up
             ;
             This
             being
             still
             their
             cry
             ,
          
           
             
               The
               Times
               are
               fickle
            
             ;
             but
             Disloyalty
          
           
             Makes
             them
             afraid
             ;
             't
             is
             not
             the
             Times
             that
             make
          
           
             Poor
             Trades-mens
             hearts
             (
             for
             want
             of
             Trading
             )
             ake
             ;
          
           
             No
             ,
             no
             ,
             't
             is
             not
             the
             Times
             ,
             it
             is
             bad
             men
             ;
          
           
             Which
             if
             but
             good
             the
             Times
             would
             mend
             agen
             :
          
           
             These
             ,
             these
             ,
             are
             only
             Saints
             ;
             but
             can
             there
             be
          
           
             A
             perfect
             Saint
             that
             has
             no
             Charitie
             ?
          
           
             No
             ,
             no
             ;
             't
             is
             not
             alone
             the
             Brotherhood
          
           
             Can
             make
             them
             Saints
             ;
             they
             likewise
             must
             do
             good
          
           
             Unto
             the
             Kingdom
             ;
             And
             they
             'r
             bound
             by
             Law
          
           
             To
             love
             the
             King
             ;
             of
             Him
             to
             stand
             in
             awe
             ;
          
           
             Which
             can't
             be
             done
             ,
             unless
             they
             do
             approve
          
           
             Of
             His
             just
             Laws
             ,
             submitting
             to
             His
             Love
             ;
          
           
             Were
             this
             but
             so
             ,
             you
             need
             not
             then
             to
             fear
          
           
             But
             Trade
             would
             mend
             ,
             and
             every
             thing
             appear
          
           
             In
             its
             full
             Lustre
             ;
             Then
             the
             poor
             would
             cry
             ,
          
           
             
               God
               blesses
               us
               because
               of
               Vnity
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             MONEY'
             's
             a
             Jewel
             ;
             yet
             there
             's
             few
             can
             finde
          
           
             Within
             that
             Jewel
             a
             contented
             minde
             :
          
           
             Money
             's
             a
             World
             ;
             for
             many
             men
             there
             be
          
           
             In
             getting
             it
             do
             gain
             Eternitie
             ;
          
           
             As
             he
             that
             picks
             a
             Pocket
             ;
             do
             you
             think
          
           
             That
             he
             would
             venture
             so
             ,
             wer
             't
             not
             for
             Chink
             ?
          
           
             And
             he
             that
             steals
             a
             Horse
             ,
             if
             once
             got
             free
             ,
          
           
             Minds
             not
             his
             Horse
             ;
             he
             must
             converted
             be
          
           
             Into
             this
             Money
             :
             Others
             that
             oft
             do
             stand
          
           
             Upon
             the
             Rode
             ,
             't
             is
             Money
             they
             demand
             :
          
           
             Murder
             and
             Treason
             ;
             both
             these
             grounded
             be
          
           
             On
             ,
             
               So
               much
               Coin
               for
               this
               thy
               Treacherie
               :
            
          
           
           
             Money
             's
             the
             Law
             ;
             for
             he
             that
             's
             full
             possest
          
           
             Of
             Gold
             and
             Silver
             ,
             always
             fares
             the
             best
             :
          
           
             Money
             's
             the
             Judge
             ;
             't
             is
             that
             condems
             them
             all
             ,
          
           
             
               You
               took
               so
               much
               ,
               and
               therefore
               Hang
               you
               shall
               :
            
          
           
             Money
             's
             the
             Gallows
             and
             the
             Hangman
             both
             ;
          
           
             Wer
             't
             not
             for
             that
             ,
             Sir
             Dun
             ,
             he
             would
             be
             loth
          
           
             To
             tye
             them
             up
             ;
             And
             had
             they
             been
             content
          
           
             With
             what
             they
             had
             ,
             they
             need
             not
             now
             repent
          
           
             For
             what
             they
             did
             :
             This
             Money
             makes
             some
             sad
             .
          
           
             Others
             rejoyce
             ;
             and
             some
             it
             makes
             quite
             mad
             :
          
           
             Money
             makes
             some
             rich
             ;
             some
             it
             maketh
             poor
             :
          
           
             Money
             makes
             Rogues
             ;
             'T
             is
             Money
             makes
             a
             Whore
             :
          
           
             Money
             makes
             Knaves
             ;
             the
             reason
             's
             very
             plain
             ;
          
           
             
               They'd
               ne're
               turn
               Knaves
               ,
               wer
               't
               not
               for
               knavish
               gain
               :
            
          
           
             Money
             makes
             men
             Fools
             ,
             (
             as
             daily
             you
             may
             see
             )
          
           
             'T
             is
             for
             the
             same
             that
             men
             Jack-Puddings
             be
             ;
          
           
             Are
             these
             not
             Fools
             indeed
             ?
             Nay
             ,
             simple
             Elves
             ,
          
           
             That
             thus
             for
             Money
             will
             transform
             themselves
          
           
             From
             men
             to
             Devils
             ,
             assuming
             any
             shape
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             like
             to
             Monkies
             ,
             at
             you
             grin
             and
             gape
             ;
          
           
             They
             get
             their
             means
             by
             fooling
             ;
             yet
             some
             say
             ,
          
           
             
               He
               that
               is
               Fool
               is
               wisest
               of
               the
               Play
            
             ;
          
           
             But
             my
             weak
             judgment
             tells
             me
             't
             can't
             be
             so
             ;
          
           
             For
             ,
             
               Who
               more
               fool
               then
               he
               that
               makes
               him
               so
               :
            
          
           
             Money
             makes
             a
             Man
             ;
             Money
             makes
             a
             Wife
             :
          
           
             Money
             breeds
             content
             ;
             Want
             it
             breedeth
             strife
             :
          
           
             Money
             is
             all
             things
             ;
             what
             is
             there
             in
             this
             Land
             ,
          
           
             But
             this
             thing
             Money
             has
             it
             at
             command
             ?
          
           
             'T
             is
             Money
             that
             I
             want
             ;
             for
             Trading
             it
             is
             bad
             ;
          
           
             'T
             is
             for
             the
             want
             thereof
             that
             makes
             my
             heart
             so
             sad
             ;
          
           
             I
             think
             ,
             therefore
             ,
             my
             wisest
             course
             will
             be
             ,
          
           
             To
             seek
             Redress
             for
             this
             my
             povertie
             ;
          
           
             Which
             how
             I
             know
             uot
             ;
             but
             ,
             would
             Strife
             once
             end
             ,
          
           
             And
             men
             turn
             good
             ;
             the
             TIMES
             ,
             no
             doubt
             ,
             would
             mend
             .
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
         
      
    
     
  

