







 
   
     
       
         The miracles perform'd by money a poem / by the author of the humours of a coffee-house.
         Ward, Edward, 1667-1731.
      
       
         
           1692
        
      
       Approx. 28 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 13 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images.
       
         Text Creation Partnership,
         Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :
         2003-07 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).
         A67512
         Wing W746
         ESTC R3744
         12311313
         ocm 12311313
         59368
         
           
            This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of
             Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal
            . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
          
        
      
       
         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A67512)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 59368)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 904:42)
      
       
         
           
             The miracles perform'd by money a poem / by the author of the humours of a coffee-house.
             Ward, Edward, 1667-1731.
          
           [4], 20 p.
           
             Printed, and are to be sold by the booksellers of London and Westminster,
             London :
             1692.
          
           
             Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.
             Attributed to Edward Ward. cf. BM.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2tei.xsl, TEI @ Oxford.
         Re-processed by University of Nebraska-Lincoln and Northwestern, with changes to facilitate morpho-syntactic tagging. Gap elements of known extent have been transformed into placeholder characters or elements to simplify the filling in of gaps by user contributors.
      
       
         EEBO-TCP is a partnership between the Universities of Michigan and Oxford and the publisher ProQuest to create accurately transcribed and encoded texts based on the image sets published by ProQuest via their Early English Books Online (EEBO) database (http://eebo.chadwyck.com). The general aim of EEBO-TCP is to encode one copy (usually the first edition) of every monographic English-language title published between 1473 and 1700 available in EEBO.
         EEBO-TCP aimed to produce large quantities of textual data within the usual project restraints of time and funding, and therefore chose to create diplomatic transcriptions (as opposed to critical editions) with light-touch, mainly structural encoding based on the Text Encoding Initiative (http://www.tei-c.org).
         The EEBO-TCP project was divided into two phases. The 25,363 texts created during Phase 1 of the project have been released into the public domain as of 1 January 2015. Anyone can now take and use these texts for their own purposes, but we respectfully request that due credit and attribution is given to their original source.
         Users should be aware of the process of creating the TCP texts, and therefore of any assumptions that can be made about the data.
         Text selection was based on the New Cambridge Bibliography of English Literature (NCBEL). If an author (or for an anonymous work, the title) appears in NCBEL, then their works are eligible for inclusion. Selection was intended to range over a wide variety of subject areas, to reflect the true nature of the print record of the period. In general, first editions of a works in English were prioritized, although there are a number of works in other languages, notably Latin and Welsh, included and sometimes a second or later edition of a work was chosen if there was a compelling reason to do so.
         Image sets were sent to external keying companies for transcription and basic encoding. Quality assurance was then carried out by editorial teams in Oxford and Michigan. 5% (or 5 pages, whichever is the greater) of each text was proofread for accuracy and those which did not meet QA standards were returned to the keyers to be redone. After proofreading, the encoding was enhanced and/or corrected and characters marked as illegible were corrected where possible up to a limit of 100 instances per text. Any remaining illegibles were encoded as <gap>s. Understanding these processes should make clear that, while the overall quality of TCP data is very good, some errors will remain and some readable characters will be marked as illegible. Users should bear in mind that in all likelihood such instances will never have been looked at by a TCP editor.
         The texts were encoded and linked to page images in accordance with level 4 of the TEI in Libraries guidelines.
         Copies of the texts have been issued variously as SGML (TCP schema; ASCII text with mnemonic sdata character entities); displayable XML (TCP schema; characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or text strings within braces); or lossless XML (TEI P5, characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or TEI g elements).
         
          Keying and markup guidelines are available at the
           Text Creation Partnership web site
          .
        
      
       
         
         
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Money -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
     
        2003-02 TCP
        Assigned for keying and markup
      
        2003-04 Apex CoVantage
        Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images
      
        2003-05 John Latta
        Sampled and proofread
      
        2003-05 John Latta
        Text and markup reviewed and edited
      
        2003-06 pfs
        Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
      
    
  
   
     
       
         
         
         
           THE
           MIRACLES
           Perform'd
           by
           MONEY
           ;
           A
           POEM
           .
        
         
           By
           the
           Author
           of
           the
           Humours
           of
           a
           Coffee-house
           .
        
         
           
             T
             is
             
               Virtue
               ,
               Wit
            
             ,
             and
             Worth
             ,
             and
             all
             ,
          
           
             That
             Men
             Divine
             ,
             and
             Sacred
             call
             :
          
           
             For
             what
             is
             Worth
             in
             any
             thing
             ,
          
           
             But
             so
             much
             Money
             as
             t'
             will
             bring
             ?
          
           
             
               Hudibras
               part
               2d
               .
               Canto
               1st
               .
            
          
        
         
           LONDON
           :
           Printed
           ,
           and
           are
           to
           be
           sold
           by
           the
           Book-sellers
           of
           London
           and
           Westminster
           :
           1692.
           
        
      
       
         
         
         
           EPISTLE
           DEDICATORY
           TO
           Sir
           Martin
           Monyless
           .
        
         
           
             SInce
             my
             very
             
               good
               Friend
            
             ,
             but
             now
             under
             the
             Hatches
             ,
          
           
             And
             as
             poor
             as
             a
             Seller
             of
             Brooms
             and
             Card-matches
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             hast
             left
             off
             thy
             Quibbles
             ,
             thy
             Songs
             ,
             and
             thy
             Catches
             .
          
        
         
           
             Prithee
             leave
             off
             thy
             Sober
             dull
             Plodding
             and
             thinking
             ,
          
           
             And
             into
             thy
             Pockets
             get
             Ready
             and
             Chink
             in
             ,
          
           
             And
             then
             I
             'le
             allow
             thee
             a
             Time
             for
             
               good
               Drinking
            
             .
          
        
         
           
             For
             till
             then
             be
             thy
             Parts
             ne're
             so
             Modish
             and
             Florid
             ,
          
           
             Till
             with
             Darby's
             and
             Smelts
             thou
             thy
             Purse
             hast
             well
             stored
             ,
          
           
             There
             's
             a
             Fool
             in
             thy
             Face
             ,
             and
             an
             Ass
             in
             thy
             Forehead
             .
          
        
         
           
             What
             a
             Pox
             do
             I
             care
             for
             a
             
               Monyless
               Fellow
            
             ?
          
           
             If
             he
             speaks
             ne're
             so
             Witty
             he
             seems
             but
             to
             Bellow
             ,
          
           
             If
             he
             wants
             the
             true
             Blessings
             of
             White
             and
             of
             Yellow
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Till
             thou
             Mony
             hast
             got
             ,
             thy
             Brisk
             Humour
             will
             falter
             ,
          
           
             Till
             thou
             hast
             it
             ne're
             spare
             neither
             Temple
             nor
             Altar
             ,
          
           
             
               But
               a
               Word
               by
               the
               by
               ,
            
             Have
             a
             care
             of
             the
             Halter
             .
          
        
         
           
             But
             let
             happen
             What
             will
             ,
             get
             some
             Mony
             how
             er'e
             ,
          
           
             
               Cog
               ,
               Flatter
               ,
               Dissemble
               ,
               Lye
               ,
               Swear
               ,
            
             and
             Forswear
             ,
          
           
             And
             attempt
             any
             Action
             a
             brave
             Fellow
             dare
             .
          
        
         
           
             Be
             a
             Pimp
             ,
             or
             a
             Pander
             ,
             a
             Sharper
             ,
             or
             Bully
             ,
          
           
             A
             Decoy
             ,
             a
             Trappan
             ,
             or
             
               a
               Counterfeit
               Cully
            
             ,
          
           
             And
             never
             give
             ore
             till
             thou
             'st
             done
             the
             trick
             fully
             .
          
        
         
           
             Swear
             old
             Men
             are
             young
             ,
             and
             Queen
             Blowze
             is
             a
             Beauty
             ,
          
           
             Undo
             pretty
             Virgins
             ,
             tempts
             Wives
             from
             their
             Duty
             ,
          
           
             And
             be
             true
             to
             all
             Interests
             you
             think
             will
             be
             true
             t'
             ye
             .
          
        
         
           
             Out-rail
             a
             Bilk't
             Coachman
             ,
             Out-banter
             a
             Wit
             ,
          
           
             Out-lye
             a
             News-writer
             ,
             out-promise
             a
             Cit
             ,
          
           
             Strive
             thy self
             to
             out-do
             if
             the
             Thing
             thou
             canst
             hit
             .
          
        
         
           
             More
             Women
             deceive
             than
             did
             Wickham
             of
             late
             ,
          
           
             Religion
             or
             Bawdy
             or
             any
             thing
             Prate
             ,
          
           
             And
             put
             on
             all
             Shapes
             so
             thou
             get
             but
             the
             Plate
             .
          
        
         
           
             Prithee
             never
             want
             Mony
             what
             ever
             may
             lack
             thee
             ,
          
           
             For
             when
             thou
             hast
             Mony
             no
             Friends
             will
             forsake
             thee
             ,
          
           
             But
             if
             thour'
             t
             without
             it
             the
             
               Devil
               may
               take
               thee
            
             .
          
        
         
           
             Thy
             Friend
             (
             if
             thou
             wilt
             be
             thine
             own
             )
          
        
         
           
             Tom
             of
             Ten
             Thousand
          
           .
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           WHat
           mighty
           Magick
           does
           the
           World
           betwitch
           ,
        
         
           That
           all
           Mankind
           thus
           Covet
           to
           be
           Rich
           ?
        
         
           Daily
           plough
           up
           the
           raging
           stormy
           Main
           ,
        
         
           From
           East
           to
           West
           ,
           and
           all
           in
           chase
           of
           Gain
           ;
        
         
           Climb
           highest
           Hills
           ,
           through
           sandy
           Deserts
           go
           ,
        
         
           Over
           partcht
           Plains
           ,
           and
           Mountains
           clad
           in
           Snow
           ;
        
         
           The
           various
           Heats
           and
           Colds
           of
           Climates
           scorn
           ,
        
         
           Of
           both
           the
           Tropicks
           ,
           
             Cancer
             ,
             Capricorn
          
           ;
        
         
           Deprive
           their
           Nights
           of
           Rest
           ,
           their
           Days
           of
           Pleasure
           ,
        
         
           Grow
           Hoary-headed
           in
           pursuit
           of
           Treasure
           ;
        
         
           Swear
           and
           Forswear
           ,
           Equivocate
           and
           Lye
           ,
        
         
           Stick
           at
           no
           Oaths
           nor
           blackest
           Perjury
           ;
        
         
           Sons
           kill
           their
           Fathers
           ,
           Brother
           fight
           with
           Brother
           ,
        
         
           And
           all
           Mankind
           prove
           Wolves
           to
           one
           another
           ;
        
         
         
           Friends
           sheath
           their
           Swords
           in
           Bosoms
           of
           their
           Friends
           ,
        
         
           When
           with
           kind
           Love
           their
           Interest
           contends
           ;
        
         
           With
           wild
           confusion
           all
           the
           World
           spread
           o're
           ,
        
         
           Occasion'd
           by
           the
           search
           of
           
             Shining
             Oar
          
           :
        
         
           The
           Secret
           would
           some
           Spirit
           but
           unfold
           ,
        
         
           From
           whence
           proceeds
           this
           mighty
           thirst
           of
           Gold
           ?
        
         
           Cease
           
             Foolish
             Muse
          
           ,
           thy
           Admiration
           cease
           ,
        
         
           Or
           to
           know
           nothing
           of
           the
           World
           confess
           ;
        
         
           For
           't
           is
           a
           certain
           Maxim
           plain
           and
           clear
           ,
        
         
           
             Want
             of
             a
             Blessing
             makes
             a
             Blessing
             dear
             :
          
        
         
           What
           Monied
           Man
           wrackt
           with
           Gout
           ,
           would
           not
           ,
        
         
           With
           a
           young
           healthful
           Beggar
           change
           his
           Lot
           ?
        
         
           With
           wholesom
           Scraps
           a
           vig'rous
           health
           maintain
           ,
        
         
           Rather
           than
           lye
           on
           Velvet
           Couch
           in
           pain
           ?
        
         
           
             If
             Love
             of
             Mony
             be
             the
             Root
             of
             Evil
             ,
          
        
         
           
             The
             want
             of
             it
             is
             certainly
             the
             Devil
             :
          
        
         
           A
           Truth
           which
           ever
           was
           and
           ever
           will
        
         
           Be
           known
           to
           all
           the
           
             Brethren
             of
             the
             Quill
          
           :
        
         
           Their
           Purses
           like
           Sprink-tides
           are
           sometimes
           swel'd
           ,
        
         
           And
           to
           the
           Brims
           with
           smiling
           Angels
           fill'd
           :
        
         
           But
           Tides
           of
           Ebb
           do
           soon
           their
           Pockets
           drain
           ,
        
         
           And
           then
           they
           're
           at
           low
           Water
           mark
           again
           .
        
         
         
           Since
           then
           it
           is
           not
           by
           the
           Gods
           allow'd
           ,
        
         
           Poets
           should
           always
           find
           so
           great
           a
           good
           ,
        
         
           Wee
           'l
           rail
           at
           what
           is
           not
           within
           our
           Power
           ,
        
         
           As
           did
           the
           Fox
           ,
           who
           swore
           the
           Grapes
           were
           sour
           ;
        
         
           Recount
           the
           various
           Wonders
           hourly
           done
           ,
        
         
           By
           Monies
           strange
           effective
           Force
           alone
           ,
        
         
           And
           the
           surprizing
           Miracles
           unfold
           ,
        
         
           Done
           by
           the
           Vertue
           of
           
             Almighty
             Gold.
          
        
         
           
             Room
             for
             my
             Lord
             there
             —
             be
             uncover'd
             Slave
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Bear
             back
             ye
             Vermin
          
           ,
           cries
           a
           sawcy
           Knave
           ,
        
         
           Walking
           before
           a
           Spark
           whose
           vast
           Estate
        
         
           Did's
           Title
           first
           ,
           and
           then
           Respect
           create
           :
        
         
           Whose
           Grand-father
           perhaps
           was
           one
           so
           civil
           ,
        
         
           For
           Gold
           to
           go
           directly
           to
           the
           Devil
           ,
        
         
           That
           his
           dear
           
             Hony
             suckle
             Babe
          
           might
           be
        
         
           A
           Knight
           ,
           or
           else
           a
           
             Man
             of
             Quality
          
           :
        
         
           See
           how
           he
           struts
           —
           observe
           the
           humble
           grin
           ,
        
         
           Which
           by
           his
           Flatterers
           is
           return'd
           again
           ;
        
         
           Mark
           how
           they
           bow
           with
           most
           fantastick
           cringes
           ,
        
         
           As
           if
           their
           Bodies
           mov'd
           by
           Springs
           and
           Hinges
           .
        
         
           
             A
             supple
             Slave
          
           then
           whispers
           in
           his
           Ear
           ,
        
         
           
             My
             Lord
          
           ,
           Gad
           judg
           me
           ,
           
             if
             you
             dont
             appear
          
           ,
        
         
           
             The
             most
             accomplish'd
             Person
             in
             the
             World
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Your
             Shape
             so
             clean
             ,
             your
             Wigg
             so
             neatly
             Curl'd
          
           ;
        
         
         
           Nay
           
             you
             'r
             the
             only
             Man
             at
             Court
             ,
             which
             ere
          
        
         
           
             Knew
             how
             to
             Dress
             —
             By
             Gad
             my
             Lord
             you
             wear
          
        
         
           
             Your
             Cloaths
             with
             such
             becoming
             Negligence
             ,
          
        
         
           
             As
             if
             you
             only
             put
             them
             on
             by
             Chance
          
           ;
        
         
           
             The
             Ladies
             all
             have
             laid
             their
             Hearts
             at
             stake
             ,
          
        
         
           
             And
             sigh
             and
             languish
             only
             for
             your
             sake
             .
          
        
         
           At
           this
           
             my
             Lord
          
           affords
           a
           gracious
           Smile
           ,
        
         
           Listning
           to
           's
           fulsom
           Flattery
           all
           the
           while
           .
        
         
           By
           this
           time
           to
           attend
           his
           Levee
           ,
           comes
        
         
           A
           needy
           Poet
           ,
           twirling
           of
           his
           Thumbs
           ,
        
         
           And
           looking
           simply
           humbly
           craves
           ,
           
             my
             Lord
          
           ,
        
         
           The
           mighty
           Honour
           would
           be
           pleas'd
           t'
           afford
           ,
        
         
           As
           to
           become
           a
           Patron
           to
           his
           Play
           ,
        
         
           That
           is
           ,
           in
           other
           words
           ,
           be
           pleas'd
           to
           pay
        
         
           For
           fulsom
           Praise
           ,
           cramp't
           in
           a
           florid
           Story
           ,
        
         
           In
           the
           Epistle
           called
           Ded'catory
           :
        
         
           By
           a
           small
           nod
           my
           Lord
           assents
           he
           will
           ,
        
         
           Which
           does
           the
           scribling
           Wretch
           will
           pleasure
           fill
           :
        
         
           Homeward
           he
           goes
           by
           studious
           Arts
           to
           raise
           ,
        
         
           For
           
             gilded
             Quality
          
           some
           
             tinsel
             Praise
          
           .
        
         
           Nay
           too
           too
           oft
           do
           Men
           of
           Wit
           and
           Parts
           ,
        
         
           Well
           read
           in
           Men
           ,
           in
           Languages
           and
           Arts
           ,
        
         
           Expose
           ,
           for
           want
           of
           
             necessary
             Pence
          
           ,
        
         
           To
           
             monied
             Blockheads
          
           ,
           their
           Immortal
           Sense
           ;
        
         
         
           Who
           by
           that
           Means
           acquire
           a
           lasting
           Fame
           ,
        
         
           And
           to
           Posterity
           transmit
           a
           Name
           ;
        
         
           Which
           in
           Oblivions
           Records
           else
           had
           stood
           ,
        
         
           With
           Names
           of
           Millions
           dead
           before
           the
           Flood
           .
        
         
           Mong
           Wonders
           to
           which
           Mony
           makes
           pretence
           ,
        
         
           'T
           is
           strange
           it
           shou'd
           supply
           the
           want
           of
           Sense
           !
        
         
           Yet
           is
           an
           Ideot
           by
           Fortune
           blest
           ,
        
         
           With
           a
           full
           Pocket
           ,
           or
           a
           well
           cram'd
           Chest
           ;
        
         
           And
           by
           the
           means
           of
           his
           so
           large
           Increase
           ,
        
         
           Made
           
             Knight
             o'
             th
             Shire
          
           ,
           or
           
             Justice
             of
             the
             Peace
          
           :
        
         
           At
           Quarter-Sessions
           when
           he
           sits
           in
           State
           ,
        
         
           Among
           his
           Brethren
           ,
           to
           Assess
           and
           Rate
           ,
        
         
           Tho
           nere
           so
           dull
           and
           flat
           ,
           yet
           what
           he
           says
           ,
        
         
           Is
           of
           By-Standers
           sure
           to
           gain
           the
           Praise
           ;
        
         
           'T
           is
           much
           if
           when
           their
           Commendations
           Swell
           ,
        
         
           They
           say
           not
           
             —
             Spoken
             like
             an
             Oracle
          
           .
        
         
           Or
           if
           in
           mixt
           Converse
           ,
           where
           Business
           ,
           News
           ,
        
         
           Or
           other
           Talk
           does
           Company
           amuse
           ,
        
         
           The
           Man
           should
           chancc
           to
           Interfere
           and
           Prate
           ,
        
         
           (
           For
           nothing
           noted
           but
           his
           great
           Estate
           )
        
         
           If
           by
           the
           Hour
           he
           Nonsense
           should
           discourse
           ,
        
         
           (
           Than
           which
           there
           cannot
           be
           a
           greater
           Curse
        
         
           In
           Conversation
           )
           yet
           they
           listen
           all
           ,
        
         
           And
           greedily
           snatch
           up
           the
           Words
           which
           fall
        
         
         
           From
           's
           Mouth
           ,
           as
           if
           they
           were
           in
           modern
           Sense
           ,
        
         
           The
           choicest
           Pearls
           and
           Flowers
           of
           Eloquence
           .
        
         
           But
           if
           on
           him
           the
           
             Itch
             of
             Scribling
          
           seize
           ,
        
         
           And
           's
           labring
           Thoughts
           can
           never
           be
           at
           ease
           ,
        
         
           Till
           he
           in
           Print
           has
           to
           the
           World
           put
           forth
           ,
        
         
           A
           Piece
           (
           as
           he
           esteems
           )
           of
           mighty
           Worth
           ,
        
         
           Be
           th'
           Subject
           what
           it
           will
           of
           any
           kind
           ,
        
         
           It
           will
           not
           fail
           a
           vast
           Applause
           to
           find
           ;
        
         
           For
           there
           was
           ner'e
           a
           Scribling
           
             Monied
             Fop
          
           ,
        
         
           But
           found
           some
           greater
           Fool
           to
           cry
           him
           up
           ;
        
         
           If
           not
           much
           Prais
           d
           ,
           it
           will
           at
           least
           be
           said
           ,
        
         
           The
           Author
           wrote
           for
           Pleasure
           ,
           not
           for
           Bread.
        
         
           Is
           Verse
           the
           Subject
           ?
           Tho'
           each
           Stanza
           chimes
           ,
        
         
           With
           as
           much
           Spirit
           as
           do
           
           Belmen's
           Rhimes
           ;
        
         
           Tho'
           ten
           times
           duller
           every
           Line
           appears
           ,
        
         
           Than
           Crowns
           late
           Daeneids
           ,
           or
           
             John
             Bunyans
          
           Verse
           :
        
         
           Yet
           his
           flat
           Nonsense
           will
           the
           World
           prefer
           ,
        
         
           Before
           the
           Lines
           of
           
             Cowley
             ,
             Rochester
          
           ,
        
         
           Waller
           or
           Denham
           ,
           or
           the
           late
           admir'd
        
         
           Oldham
           ,
           who
           wrote
           as
           with
           a
           Muse
           inspir'd
           .
        
         
           If
           Politicks
           his
           empty
           Pages
           swell
           ,
        
         
           He
           understands
           much
           more
           than
           Matchivel
           ;
        
         
           And
           does
           from
           newer
           Principles
           derive
           ye
        
         
           The
           grounds
           of
           Rule
           than
           Hobbs
           in
           Book
           
             de
             Cive
          
           :
        
         
         
           Nay
           ,
           he
           how
           far
           the
           very
           bounds
           can
           show
           ,
        
         
           Prerogative
           and
           Priviledge
           may
           go
           ;
        
         
           And
           he
           has
           often
           ,
           tho'
           t'
           has
           been
           in
           's
           Power
           ,
        
         
           Declin'd
           the
           Place
           of
           
             Privy
             Councellor
          
           .
        
         
           Does
           History
           amuse
           his
           idle
           Hours
           ?
        
         
           He
           does
           with
           more
           Solidity
           discourse
        
         
           Of
           that
           grave
           Subject
           ,
           than
           can
           ere
           be
           read
           ,
        
         
           In
           Works
           of
           
             Baker
             ,
             Speed
          
           or
           Hollinshed
           .
        
         
           If
           to
           mixt
           Subjects
           he
           his
           Pen
           applies
           ,
        
         
           What
           ere
           he
           writes
           is
           sure
           to
           find
           success
           ;
        
         
           His
           Flatterers
           will
           every
           thing
           admire
           ,
        
         
           Each
           Line
           ,
           each
           Sentence
           ,
           sets
           their
           Souls
           on
           fire
           ;
        
         
           All
           is
           Divine
           ,
           there
           's
           not
           a
           Word
           amiss
           ,
        
         
           With
           joy
           they
           shake
           ,
           and
           weep
           with
           tenderness
           :
        
         
           By
           this
           his
           Vanity
           so
           high
           is
           flown
           ,
        
         
           He
           thinks
           no
           Works
           so
           shining
           as
           his
           own
           :
        
         
           If
           you
           in
           number
           of
           his
           Friends
           he
           takes
           ,
        
         
           Of
           's
           Works
           to
           you
           he
           then
           a
           Present
           makes
           ;
        
         
           For
           which
           ,
           as
           't
           is
           the
           Fashion
           now
           a
           days
           ,
        
         
           You
           must
           be
           sure
           the
           new
           Composure
           praise
           ,
        
         
           And
           tell
           him
           ,
           that
           the
           sottish
           World
           had
           lain
        
         
           In
           Ignorance
           ,
           had
           not
           his
           Learned
           Pen
        
         
           The
           Foggs
           their
           Reason
           clouded
           ,
           soon
           dispell'd
           ,
        
         
           And
           with
           rich
           thoughts
           their
           empty
           judgments
           fil'd
           :
        
         
         
           Tho
           after
           all
           it
           is
           these
           Scriblers
           fate
           ,
        
         
           (
           For
           little
           else
           but
           noisy
           Praise
           they
           get
           )
        
         
           To
           have
           their
           very
           Works
           so
           much
           esteem'd
           ,
        
         
           By
           Flatterers
           ,
           to
           be
           at
           last
           condemn'd
           ,
        
         
           To
           wrap
           up
           Spice
           ,
           Tobacco
           ,
           Soap
           and
           Plumbs
           ,
        
         
           Under
           Pyes
           put
           ,
           or
           wipe
           the
           Readers
           B
           —
           s
           ;
        
         
           And
           thus
           each
           lofty
           Line
           ,
           each
           mighty
           Thought
           ,
        
         
           Is
           to
           its
           final
           Execution
           brought
           .
        
         
           If
           one
           by
           Fortune
           plac
           d
           in
           low
           Degree
           ,
        
         
           Reduc'd
           to
           Want
           and
           needy
           Poverty
           ,
        
         
           Living
           in
           Country
           Village
           all
           alone
           ,
        
         
           His
           Name
           to
           Parish-Register
           scarce
           known
           ,
        
         
           Should
           by
           some
           strange
           and
           unexpected
           Fate
           ,
        
         
           Become
           the
           Heir
           to
           Mony
           or
           Estate
           ,
        
         
           And
           is
           ,
           his
           part
           the
           better
           to
           maintain
           ,
        
         
           Ambitious
           to
           be
           thought
           a
           Gentleman
           ;
        
         
           Tho'
           by
           the
           ancient
           Stock
           from
           whence
           he
           came
           ,
        
         
           He
           was
           a
           Begger
           both
           by
           Sire
           and
           Dam
           ;
        
         
           Yet
           
             Learned
             Heralds
          
           can
           for
           Mony
           show
           ,
        
         
           From
           some
           rich
           Family
           he
           first
           did
           grow
           :
        
         
           Tho
           ,
           for
           some
           time
           it
           may
           have
           been
           obscure
           ,
        
         
           His
           Ancestors
           came
           in
           with
           th'
           Conqueror
           .
        
         
           If
           store
           of
           Or
           and
           Argent
           he
           has
           got
           ,
        
         
           He
           shall
           not
           fail
           to
           have
           'em
           in
           his
           Coat
           ;
        
         
         
           Tho'
           
             Dormant
             Couchant
          
           long
           his
           Name
           did
           rest
           ,
        
         
           He
           shall
           have
           
             Lyon
             Rampant
          
           for
           his
           Crest
           ;
        
         
           And
           if
           hee
           l
           pay
           but
           briskly
           for
           the
           thing
           ,
        
         
           From
           John
           of
           Gaunt
           his
           Pedigree
           they
           'l
           bring
        
         
           Thus
           store
           of
           Mony
           and
           a
           
             vast
             Estate
          
           ,
        
         
           Can
           of
           a
           Clown
           a
           Gentleman
           create
           .
        
         
           But
           now
           another
           Scene
           appears
           in
           view
           ,
        
         
           A
           Scene
           which
           known
           Experience
           says
           is
           true
           :
        
         
           Suppose
           then
           Reader
           ,
           that
           my
           Friend
           and
           I
           ,
        
         
           Ev'n
           in
           the
           days
           of
           Childish
           Infancy
        
         
           Such
           Freedoms
           take
           ,
           we
           afterwards
           improve
           ,
        
         
           To
           highest
           Offices
           of
           Friendly
           Love
           ;
        
         
           One
           Soul
           our
           diff'rent
           Bodies
           seems
           to
           move
           ,
        
         
           Alike
           we
           hate
           ,
           alike
           approve
           ,
           and
           love
           :
        
         
           All
           lawful
           Pleasures
           we
           alike
           partake
           ,
        
         
           And
           each
           is
           free
           to
           Dye
           for
           t'others
           sake
           ;
        
         
           No
           Task
           thought
           difficult
           ,
           nor
           Danger
           great
           ,
        
         
           May
           firmer
           Unions
           of
           our
           Souls
           create
           ;
        
         
           And
           what
           crowns
           all
           ,
           we
           both
           have
           Mony
           store
           ,
        
         
           He
           vastly
           Rich
           ,
           I
           far
           from
           being-Poor
           .
        
         
           But
           if
           by
           Fortune's
           strange
           capricious
           Spight
           ,
        
         
           On
           my
           Estate
           some
           sweeping
           Mischief
           light
           ,
        
         
           Some
           raging
           Fire
           my
           blooming
           Hopes
           prevent
           ,
        
         
           Or
           Loss
           by
           Sea
           ,
           or
           other
           Accident
        
         
         
           Strips
           me
           of
           all
           those
           Riches
           once
           I
           had
           ,
        
         
           My
           Diet
           mean
           ,
           my self
           more
           meanly
           clad
           ,
        
         
           Pensive
           and
           Thoughtful
           all
           day
           long
           I
           walk
           ,
        
         
           And
           to
           my self
           in
           broken
           Murmurs
           talk
           ,
        
         
           Having
           no
           Comfort
           but
           this
           Thought
           alone
           ,
        
         
           Tho
           Fortune
           's
           fled
           ,
           yet
           Friendship
           is
           not
           gone
           ;
        
         
           Unwilling
           yet
           of
           Friends
           to
           ask
           Relief
           ,
        
         
           
             For
             there
             's
             a
             kind
             of
             Modesty
             in
             Grief
             ,
          
        
         
           As
           yet
           within
           the
           compass
           of
           my
           Breast
           ,
        
         
           My
           Wants
           ,
           my
           Troubles
           ,
           and
           Afflictions
           rest
           ;
        
         
           Yet
           if
           at
           last
           my
           cruel
           Creditors
           ,
        
         
           Joyn
           all
           their
           Forces
           ,
           and
           unite
           their
           Powers
        
         
           To
           crush
           me
           ,
           and
           by
           Serjeants
           rude
           Arrest
           ,
        
         
           I
           'm
           safely
           lockt
           in
           
           Ludgate's
           stony
           Chest
           ;
        
         
           But
           yet
           in
           Prison
           give
           my
           Thoughts
           some
           scope
           ,
        
         
           And
           entertain
           my self
           with
           starving
           Hope
           ,
        
         
           That
           my
           rich
           Friend
           ,
           since
           now
           I
           stand
           in
           need
           ,
        
         
           Will
           prove
           a
           
             real
             ,
             cordial
             Friend
          
           indeed
           ;
        
         
           I
           write
           ;
           no
           Answer
           comes
           :
           I
           write
           ag'en
           ,
        
         
           Till
           I
           to
           Stumps
           have
           almost
           worn
           my
           Pen
           ;
        
         
           No
           Friend
           appears
           ,
           my
           dying
           Hopes
           to
           cherish
           ,
        
         
           There
           I
           may
           Lye
           and
           Rot
           ,
           and
           Starve
           and
           Perish
           ;
        
         
           At
           last
           ,
           when
           I
           've
           more
           Messengers
           employ'd
           ,
        
         
           Then
           patient
           Job
           with
           their
           sad
           Tales
           anoy'd
           ,
        
         
         
           He
           sends
           —
           (
           for
           should
           himself
           in
           Person
           come
           ,
        
         
           He
           'd
           be
           Infected
           in
           a
           Prison-room
           )
        
         
           And
           lets
           me
           know
           ,
           that
           he
           is
           very
           sorry
        
         
           From
           Walls
           of
           Stone
           ,
           to
           hear
           my
           dismal
           Story
           ,
        
         
           But
           had
           poor
           luckless
           I
           two
           days
           before
        
         
           Sent
           the
           sad
           News
           ,
           he
           could
           with
           mighty
           store
        
         
           Have
           eas'd
           my
           wants
           ,
           and
           tho
           his
           heart
           was
           willing
           ,
        
         
           He
           could
           not
           now
           equip
           me
           with
           a
           Shilling
           ;
        
         
           For
           on
           the
           Morning
           of
           that
           very
           Day
        
         
           I
           sent
           ,
           he
           'd
           paid
           all
           's
           ready
           Cash
           away
           :
        
         
           Or
           else
           —
           when
           he
           the
           Message
           has
           read
           o're
           ,
        
         
           Pretends
           he
           never
           heard
           my
           Name
           before
           :
        
         
           
             Lord
             how
             I
             wonder
             who
             this
             Man
             should
             be
             ,
          
        
         
           
             That
             sends
             this
             sad
             complaining
             Note
             to
             me
             ?
          
        
         
           
             I
             knew
             indeed
             a
             Wealthy
             Man
             o'
             th
             Name
             ,
          
        
         
           
             But
             cannot
             guess
             the
             Person
             whence
             this
             came
             :
          
        
         
           Tho'
           he
           and
           I
           a
           thousand
           times
           have
           try'd
        
         
           Pleasures
           ,
           when
           sailing
           with
           a
           
             Monied
             Tide
          
           ,
        
         
           But
           now
           my
           Person
           's
           utterly
           forgot
           ,
        
         
           And
           I
           in
           Gaol
           condemn'd
           alive
           to
           rot
           :
        
         
           Strange
           Logick
           !
           Can
           the
           Walls
           of
           Prison
           frame
           ,
        
         
           And
           prove
           the
           same
           Man
           is
           not
           now
           the
           same
           ?
        
         
           But
           if
           by
           some
           most
           unexpected
           fate
           ,
        
         
           By
           some
           Friend's
           Death
           I
           'm
           left
           a
           good
           Es̄tate
           ,
        
         
         
           And
           from
           Confinement
           sally
           once
           again
           ,
        
         
           Of
           my
           Acquaintance
           ,
           what
           a
           mighty
           Train
           ,
        
         
           Who
           either
           shun'd
           or
           knew
           me
           not
           before
           ,
        
         
           Come
           cringing
           now
           ,
           and
           wait
           upon
           my
           Door
           !
        
         
           In
           Anti-Chamber
           wait
           till
           I
           shall
           rise
           ,
        
         
           And
           with
           their
           Wishes
           my
           good
           Fortune
           bless
           ,
        
         
           While
           each
           one
           strives
           to
           do
           what
           ere
           he
           can
           ,
        
         
           For
           me
           the
           fortunate
           ,
           the
           happy
           Man
           ;
        
         
           With
           folding
           Arms
           my
           Body
           they
           entwine
           ,
        
         
           Their
           Fortunes
           ,
           Services
           ,
           their
           Souls
           are
           mine
           ,
        
         
           With
           winged
           haste
           at
           my
           Commands
           they
           run
           ,
        
         
           
             All
             court
             the
             Rising
             ,
             none
             the
             Setting
             Sun.
          
        
         
           If
           Gold
           in
           Friendship
           can
           such
           Wonders
           shew
           ,
        
         
           In
           Love
           ,
           what
           strange
           amazing
           Things
           't
           wil
           do
           ?
        
         
           Not
           Wit
           nor
           Vertue
           half
           so
           much
           can
           move
           ,
        
         
           As
           pow'rful
           Gold
           in
           Arts
           of
           making
           Love
           :
        
         
           A
           thousand
           Accidents
           tempt
           Flesh
           and
           Blood
           ,
        
         
           
             But
             powerful
             Guinea
             cannot
             be
             withstood
             ,
          
        
         
           For
           't
           is
           a
           Truth
           which
           Mankind
           will
           confess
           ,
        
         
           That
           ready
           Mony
           speaks
           all
           Languages
           .
        
         
           Am
           I
           than
           AEsop
           more
           deform'd
           in
           Shape
           ,
        
         
           A
           prating
           ,
           chatt'ring
           ,
           laughing
           ,
           am'rous
           Ape
           ,
        
         
           And
           justly
           can
           pretend
           no
           other
           Sense
           ,
        
         
           But
           noisy
           Nonsense
           and
           Impertinence
           ;
        
         
         
           If
           I
           with
           Guineas
           have
           my
           Pockets
           Lind
           ,
        
         
           What
           signifies
           the
           Shape
           of
           Corps
           or
           Mind
           ?
        
         
           The
           Ladies
           will
           Adore
           any
           Person
           more
           ,
        
         
           Than
           that
           of
           Handsom
           
             F
             —
             g
          
           ,
           heretofore
           .
        
         
           I
           am
           their
           Dearest
           Dear
           ,
           
             their
             Fubbs
             their
             Honey
          
        
         
           
             Their
             Angels
          
           nay
           
             their
             very
             Heav'n
             for
             Mony
          
           :
        
         
           I
           am
           more
           welcom
           to
           their
           Longing
           Arms
           ,
        
         
           Than
           is
           a
           Man
           possest
           with
           Thousand
           Charms
           ,
        
         
           Of
           Person
           ,
           Birth
           ,
           Wit
           ,
           Valour
           ,
           tho
           I
           want
        
         
           Each
           Quality
           ,
           I
           am
           their
           
             Darling
             Saint
          
           .
        
         
           For
           Mony
           ,
           Husbands
           will
           their
           Wives
           Decoy
           ,
        
         
           And
           teach
           'em
           to
           Commit
           the
           
             Guilty
             Joy
          
           ;
        
         
           Ride
           out
           of
           Town
           ,
           that
           the
           Gallant
           may
           come
        
         
           To
           tast
           forbidden
           Pleasures
           in
           his
           Room
           .
        
         
           And
           if
           he
           unawares
           should
           chance
           to
           be
        
         
           Spectator
           of
           their
           Am'rous
           Privacy
           ,
        
         
           Is
           Deaf
           and
           Blind
           ,
           and
           cannot
           hear
           nor
           see
           ;
        
         
           Nay
           some
           
             Obliging
             Cuckolds
          
           will
           do
           more
           ,
        
         
           Bring
           the
           Spark
           home
           and
           after
           hold
           the
           Door
           ,
        
         
           Think
           Horns
           no
           Shame
           ,
           if
           Mony
           by
           them
           come
           ,
        
         
           And
           Boast
           and
           Glory
           in
           their
           Cuckoldom
           .
        
         
           Mothers
           for
           this
           their
           Daughters
           will
           betray
        
         
           To
           Man
           of
           Quality
           ,
           if
           he
           but
           pay
           .
        
         
         
           With
           Charming
           Guineas
           in
           the
           Ballance
           laid
           ,
        
         
           What
           a
           poor
           Trifle
           is
           a
           Maidenhead
           ?
        
         
           T
           is
           found
           and
           lost
           ,
           t
           is
           lost
           and
           found
           again
           ,
        
         
           As
           is
           the
           Cully
           found
           'mongst
           monied
           Men
           :
        
         
           To
           those
           will
           pay
           for
           such
           forbidden
           Crimes
           ,
        
         
           It
           shall
           be
           sold
           'bove
           thirty
           sev'ral
           times
           ,
        
         
           And
           the
           crackt
           Girl
           more
           timerous
           appear
           ,
        
         
           Than
           Lucrece
           was
           when
           Tarquin
           Ravisht
           her
           .
        
         
           Too
           well
           this
           Infamous
           deceit
           is
           known
           :
        
         
           To
           the
           Lewd
           Bawds
           of
           this
           Luxurious
           Town
           ,
        
         
           When
           a
           
             Raw
             Country
             Girl
          
           away
           they
           lead
           ,
        
         
           And
           turn
           the
           Penny
           by
           her
           Maiden-head
           .
        
         
           How
           many
           
             Jilts
             ,
             Cracks
             ,
             Prostitutes
          
           and
           Whores
        
         
           Their
           Sexes
           scandal
           ,
           Natures
           common
           Shores
           ,
        
         
           Are
           there
           in
           Town
           (
           sad
           Wretches
           as
           they
           are
           )
        
         
           Who
           once
           were
           very
           vertuous
           ,
           young
           and
           Fair
           ?
        
         
           And
           who
           had
           vertuous
           been
           this
           very
           Hour
           ,
        
         
           Had
           it
           not
           been
           for
           Gold's
           Almighty
           Power
           .
        
         
           Gold
           first
           their
           Blindfold
           Reason
           led
           astray
           ,
        
         
           (
           For
           who
           its
           Mighty
           Power
           can
           disobey
           ?
        
         
           Gold
           to
           forbidden
           Paths
           First
           brought
           them
           in
           ,
        
         
           And
           Gold
           alone
           informd
           'em
           how
           to
           Sin.
        
         
           The
           Greatest
           Blessing
           which
           the
           God's
           have
           sent
           ,
        
         
           T'
           inrich
           Mankind
           withall
           ,
           is
           True
           Content
           ,
        
         
         
           Which
           humble
           Poor
           as
           well
           as
           Rich
           enjoy
           ;
        
         
           Lifes
           only
           Cordial
           ,
           Lifes
           true
           Solid
           Joy
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           this
           rare
           Jewel
           is
           too
           often
           Sold
           ,
        
         
           And
           ev'ry
           Day
           Exchang'd
           for
           Shining
           Gold.
        
         
           Can
           it
           be
           thought
           an
           
             old
             Grey
             withered
             Sot
          
           ,
        
         
           Who
           has
           in
           's
           Grave
           one
           Foot
           already
           got
           ,
        
         
           With
           
             Palsies
             ,
             Aches
             ,
             Rheumes
          
           ,
           and
           Gout
           opprest
           ,
        
         
           No
           Pith
           in
           's
           Back
           ,
           nor
           Vigour
           in
           his
           Breast
           ,
        
         
           Can
           be
           a
           
             welcome
             Present
          
           to
           the
           Arms
        
         
           Of
           a
           
             Young
             Creature
          
           blest
           with
           Thousand
           Charms
           ?
        
         
           Yet
           this
           we
           see
           is
           almost
           Daily
           done
           ,
        
         
           And
           fair
           young
           Phillis
           ,
           by
           old
           Damon
           won
           ;
        
         
           Whilst
           other
           Shepherds
           Witty
           Gay
           and
           Young
           ,
        
         
           Who
           by
           her
           side
           have
           tun'd
           their
           Pipes
           and
           Sung
           ,
        
         
           Wanting
           the
           Blessing
           of
           a
           large
           Estate
           ,
        
         
           Which
           Settlement
           and
           Joynture
           may
           Create
           ,
        
         
           Are
           slighted
           —
           whilst
           the
           
             Youthful
             Charming
             Bride
          
           ,
        
         
           Lyes
           by
           an
           old
           Mans
           unperforming
           Side
           .
        
         
           The
           Price
           of
           Beauty
           what
           Man
           does
           not
           know
           ?
        
         
           Alas
           the
           Value
           on
           t
           is
           fallen
           so
           low
           ,
        
         
           Each
           petty
           Chapman
           now
           with
           Purse
           in
           Hand
           ,
        
         
           Has
           it
           at
           Minutes
           Warning
           to
           Command
           .
        
         
           Women
           like
           Books
           and
           Pictures
           now
           a
           Days
           ,
        
         
           Are
           put
           to
           Sale
           ,
           and
           who
           the
           Price
           can
           raise
           ,
        
         
         
           Not
           he
           whose
           Merits
           decently
           can
           Crave
           'em
           ,
        
         
           No
           ,
           no
           ,
           the
           Lucky
           He
           bids
           most
           shall
           have
           'em
           :
        
         
           Youth
           ,
           Wit
           and
           Valour
           will
           not
           now
           prevail
           :
        
         
           But
           yet
           
             Almighty
             Mony
          
           cannot
           fail
           .
        
         
           With
           what
           Impatience
           have
           I
           often
           seen
           ,
        
         
           A
           
             Youthful
             Bride
          
           ,
           who
           never
           saw
           Eighteen
           ,
        
         
           Running
           with
           nimble
           haste
           to
           opening
           Door
           ,
        
         
           To
           meet
           her
           
             Good
             old
             Man
          
           of
           Sixty
           four
           ,
        
         
           Clap
           her
           Warm
           ,
           Soft
           ,
           Plump
           Rosy
           Cheek
           to
           his
           ,
        
         
           And
           nestle
           through
           his
           Beard
           to
           get
           a
           Kiss
           ?
        
         
           Play
           with
           her
           Hand
           upon
           his
           Grisly
           Chin
           ,
        
         
           And
           softly
           say
           ,
           my
           
             Dear
             where
             have
             you
             been
          
           ?
        
         
           Well
           ,
           
             you
             'r
             unkind
          
           ,
           a
           
             Naughty
             Man
             I
             vow
          
           ,
        
         
           I
           
             thought
             you
             'd
             been
             at
             home
             two
             Hours
             agoe
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Dinner
             's
             quite
             spoil'd
             —
             But
             yet
             for
             you
             my
             Dear
             ,
          
        
         
           I
           
             have
             reserv'd
             some
             Lobsters
             and
             Caveir
          
        
         
           I
           
             almost
             Longd
             to
             see
             you
          
           —
           He
           mean
           while
           ,
        
         
           For
           these
           Endearments
           can't
           afford
           a
           Smile
           ,
        
         
           But
           in
           his
           Clownish
           way
           says
           
             —
             you
             've
             your
             Will
          
           ,
        
         
           
             But
             Pleasure
             must
             give
             Place
             to
             Business
          
           still
           :
        
         
           Gripewell
           
             and
             I
             have
             got
             this
             very
             Morning
             ,
          
        
         
           
             A
             thousand
             Pounds
             —
             a
             Sum
             not
             worth
             the
             Scorning
             ,
          
        
         
           
             And
             tho
             the
             Times
             are
             Cloudy
             like
             the
             Weather
             ,
          
        
         
           
             At
             honest
          
           Ned's
           
             took
             one
             half
             pint
             together
          
           .
        
         
         
           
             Come
             come
          
           —
           and
           there
           perhaps
           he
           leads
           her
           in
           ,
        
         
           A
           Sight
           would
           almost
           tempt
           a
           Man
           to
           Sin
           ,
        
         
           And
           from
           him
           ,
           since
           he
           values
           not
           the
           Pleasure
           ,
        
         
           To
           snatch
           the
           Lovely
           Young
           and
           Tempting
           Treasure
           .
        
         
           For
           Mony
           thus
           will
           Virgins
           throw
           their
           Charms
        
         
           Within
           the
           Circle
           of
           an
           
             Old
             Mans
          
           Arms
           ;
        
         
           Tho'
           Frost
           to
           Fruits
           ,
           and
           Mildew
           to
           the
           Corn
           ,
        
         
           To
           Armour
           Rust
           ,
           or
           Fits
           to
           Child
           new
           Born
           ,
        
         
           Cannot
           more
           Fatal
           and
           Destructive
           prove
           ,
        
         
           Than
           Age
           to
           Beauty
           ,
           Impotence
           to
           Love
           :
        
         
           Her
           youthful
           Heat
           new
           Blood
           in
           him
           inspires
           ,
        
         
           While
           he
           by
           's
           Coldness
           Damps
           her
           warmer
           Fires
           ,
        
         
           His
           aged
           Limbs
           do
           Gout
           or
           Palsie
           Rack
           ;
        
         
           She
           must
           by
           Sympathy
           his
           Ills
           partake
           ,
        
         
           Becoming
           in
           short
           time
           (
           a
           thing
           most
           Common
           )
        
         
           A
           
             Sickly
             Pining
             Drooping
             old
             young
             Woman
             .
          
        
         
           Shift
           we
           the
           Scene
           now
           to
           a
           close
           Alcove
           ,
        
         
           And
           see
           a
           youthful
           Spark
           pretending
           Love
           ,
        
         
           (
           For
           sure
           no
           Man
           can
           be
           so
           void
           of
           Sense
        
         
           To
           think
           't
           is
           any
           thing
           but
           meer
           pretence
           )
        
         
           To
           an
           old
           withered
           Beldam
           of
           threescore
           ,
        
         
           Of
           swelling
           Bags
           blest
           with
           a
           Numerous
           store
           :
        
         
         
           What
           Mighty
           Wonders
           cannot
           Mony
           do
           ?
        
         
           Tho
           She
           Deform'd
           as
           
             Mother
             Shipton
          
           shew
           ,
        
         
           He
           Gripes
           her
           Palsied
           Hand
           ,
           and
           vows
           and
           swears
        
         
           No
           
             Beauty
             at
             the
             Court
             with
             her
             compares
             ,
          
        
         
           So
           
             soft
             her
             Skin
             ,
             her
             Eyes
             such
             Lustre
             hold
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Nature
             design'd
             she
             never
             should
             grow
             old
             ,
          
        
         
           While
           she
           with
           Smiles
           ,
           (
           which
           are
           indeed
           Grimace
           )
        
         
           Adding
           more
           Wrinkles
           to
           her
           Wainscoat
           Face
           ,
        
         
           Half
           opening
           of
           her
           Mouth
           to
           her
           new
           Lover
           ,
        
         
           Fearing
           she
           should
           the
           want
           of
           Teeth
           discover
           ,
        
         
           Cries
           ,
           
             truly
             Sir
             ,
             I
             wonder
             you
             should
             spy
             ,
          
        
         
           
             One
             Charm
             in
             me
             to
             please
             your
             curious
             Eye
             :
          
        
         
           
             I
             'm
             old
             ,
             t
             is
             true
          
           ,
           but
           
             yet
             there
             was
             a
             time
          
           ,
        
         
           
             Tho
             't
             is
             long
             since
             ,
             when
             I
             was
             in
             my
             Prime
             :
          
        
         
           
             This
             Face
             had
             Charms
             —
             Ah
             Madam
             !
             pray
             forbear
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Say
             not
             it
             had
             ,
             they
             're
             still
             too
             plainly
             there
             ,
          
        
         
           Says
           he
           ,
           and
           pushing
           on
           his
           am'rous
           Rage
           ,
        
         
           Tells
           her
           ,
           that
           Wine
           and
           Beauty
           gain
           by
           Age.
        
         
           She
           overcome
           ,
           
             poor
             Thing
          
           ,
           by
           his
           soft
           Words
           ,
        
         
           At
           last
           to
           take
           him
           for
           her
           Spouse
           affords
           :
        
         
           To
           Church
           they
           go
           ,
           on
           which
           the
           World
           may
           say
        
         
           (
           That
           truly
           now
           December
           Weds
           with
           May
           ;
        
         
         
           While
           he
           receives
           a
           Pension
           during
           Life
           ,
        
         
           To
           
             Do
             the
             Drudg'ry
          
           of
           an
           old
           Rich
           Wife
           .
        
         
           T
           were
           Endless
           ,
           should
           I
           but
           attempt
           to
           Run
           ,
        
         
           O're
           all
           the
           Miracles
           by
           Mony
           done
           .
        
         
           What
           Mighty
           Magick
           is
           there
           in
           a
           Fee
           ,
        
         
           To
           turn
           the
           very
           Scales
           of
           Equity
           ?
        
         
           Wrong
           shall
           be
           Right
           ,
           and
           Right
           again
           be
           Wrong
           ,
        
         
           If
           but
           with
           Gold
           you
           touch
           the
           Lawyers
           Tongue
           ,
        
         
           And
           the
           
             Coifd
             Serjeant
          
           ,
           when
           at
           Barr
           he
           pleads
           ,
        
         
           Shall
           speak
           or
           true
           or
           false
           ,
           as
           Guinea
           leads
           ;
        
         
           And
           Votes
           of
           
             Scarlet
             Judges
          
           bought
           and
           sold
           ,
        
         
           If
           purchased
           by
           the
           Mighty
           Power
           of
           Gold.
        
         
           The
           
             Roman
             Church
          
           her self
           is
           not
           asham'd
           ,
        
         
           To
           say
           the
           Poor
           ,
           and
           only
           they
           are
           Damn'd
           ;
        
         
           The
           Rich
           shall
           stay
           short
           time
           in
           Purgatory
           ,
        
         
           But
           no
           
             poor
             Wretch
          
           directly
           went
           to
           Glory
           :
        
         
           No
           ,
           he
           must
           fry
           in
           
             Purgatory
             Kitchin
          
           ,
        
         
           Till
           Mony
           can
           his
           Soul
           from
           thence
           be
           fetching
           .
        
         
           No
           
             Colledge
             Doctor
          
           in
           his
           Guilded
           Coach
           ,
        
         
           The
           Cottages
           of
           Poor
           will
           ere
           approach
           .
        
         
           Phisicians
           come
           not
           where
           there
           are
           no
           Fees
           ,
        
         
           None
           cure
           or
           plead
           in
           
             Forma
             pauperis
          
           .
        
         
         
           Mony
           what
           Wonders
           can
           it
           not
           effect
           ?
        
         
           Who
           ever
           faild
           that
           had
           it
           ,
           of
           Respect
           ?
        
         
           T'
           will
           make
           the
           
             Blind
             Man
          
           see
           ,
           the
           
             Lame
             Man
             walk
          
           ,
        
         
           Make
           
             Deaf
             Men
          
           hear
           ,
           and
           
             Dumb
             Men
          
           loudly
           talk
           ;
        
         
           T'
           will
           make
           an
           
             old
             Man
          
           have
           a
           youthful
           Skin
           ,
        
         
           And
           Beldams
           ,
           old
           as
           Aldgate
           ,
           not
           Sixteen
           ;
        
         
           Make
           Cowards
           Valiant
           ,
           and
           make
           
             Blockheads
             Wise
          
           ,
        
         
           And
           from
           low
           Dunghills
           make
           th'
           ignoble
           Rise
           ;
        
         
           Get
           Pardons
           for
           ,
           and
           Licences
           to
           Sin
           ,
        
         
           Tempt
           
             Virgins
             ,
             and
             unwary
             Youth
          
           draw
           in
           ;
        
         
           Depress
           the
           
             Good
             and
             Vertuous
          
           with
           Disgrace
           ,
        
         
           And
           set
           up
           Vice
           to
           Lord
           it
           in
           their
           place
           :
        
         
           But
           ah
           !
           what
           Pen
           its
           Miracles
           can
           tell
           ,
        
         
           Which
           Heaven
           purchases
           and
           saves
           from
           Hell
           ?
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
         
      
    
     
  

