Classic Poem

[ Perjury and revenge ]

Little do folks the heav'nly Powers mind,
If they but scape the knowledg of Mankind:
Observe, with how demure, and grave a look
The Rascal lays his hand upon the Book:
Then with a praying face, and lifted Eye
Claps on his Lips, and Seals the Perjury;
If you persist his Innocence to doubt,
And boggle in Belief; he'l strait rap out
Oaths by the volley, each of which would make
Pale Atheists start, and trembling Bullies quake;
And more than would a whole Ships crew maintain
To the East-Indies hence, and back again.
As God shall pardon me, Sir, I am free
Of what you charge me with: let me ne'er see
His Face in Heaven else: may these hands rot,
These eyes drop out; if I e're had a Groat
Of yours, or if they ever touch'd, or saw't.
Thus he'l run on two hours in length, till he
Spin out a Curse long as the Litany:
Till Heav'n has scarce a Judgment left in store
For him to wish, deserve, or suffer more.
There are, who disavow all Providence,
And think the world is only steer'd by chance:
Make God at best an idle looker on,
A lazy Monarch lolling in his Throne;
Who his Affairs does neither mind, or know,
But leaves them all at random here below:
And such at every foot themselves will damn,
And Oaths no more than common Breath esteem:
No shame, nor loss of Ears can frighten these,
Were every Street a Grove of Pillories.
...
But must such Perjury escape (say you)
And shall it ever thus unpunish'd go?
Grant, he were dragg'd to Jail this very hour,
To starve, and rot; suppose it in your Pow'r
To rack, and torture him all kind of ways,
To hang, or burn, or kill him, as you please;
(And what would your Revenge it self have more?)
Yet this, all this would not your Cash restore:
And where would be the Comfort, where the Good,
If you could wash your Hands in's reaking Blood?
But, Oh, Revenge more sweet than Life! 'Tis true,
So the unthinking say, and the mad Crew
Of hect'ring Blades, who for slight cause, or none,
At every turn are into Passion blown:
Whom the least Trifles with Revenge inspire,
And at each spark, like Gun-powder, take fire:
These unprovok'd kill the next Man they meet,
For being so sawcy, as to walk the street;
And at the summons of each tiny Drab,
Cry, Damme! Satisfaction! draw, and stab.