Classic Poem

Imitated.

THere is not one base Act, which Men commit,
But carries this ill sting along with it,
That to the Author it creates regret:
And this is some Revenge at least, that he
Can ne'r acquit himself of Villany,
Tho a Brib'd Judg and Jury set him free.
All people, Sir, abhor (as 'tis but just)
Your faithless Friend, who lately broke his Trust,
And curse the treacherous Deed: But, thanks to Fate,
That has not bless'd you with so small Estate,
But that with patience you may bear the Cross,
And need not sink under so mean a Loss.
Besides your Case for less concern does call,
Because 'tis what does usually befal:
Ten thousand such might be alledg'd with ease,
Out of the common crowd of Instances.
Then cease for shame, immoderate regret,
And don't your Manhood and your Sense forget:
'Tis womanish and silly to lay forth
More cost in Grief than a Misfortune's worth.
You scarce can bear a puny trifling ill,
It goes so deep, pray Heav'n! it does not kill:
And all this trouble, and this vain ado,
Because a Friend (forsooth) has prov'd untrue.
Shame o' your Beard! can this so much amaze?
Were you not born in good King Jemmy 's days?
And are not you at length yet wiser grown,
When threescore Winters on your head have snown?
Almighty Wisdom gives in Holy Writ
Wholsom Advice to all, that follow it:
And those, that will not its great Counsels hear,
May learn from meer experience how to bear
(Without vain strugling) Fortune's yoke, and how
They ought her rudest shocks to undergo.
There's not a day so solemn thro the year,
Not one red Letter in the Calendar,
But we of some new Crime discover'd hear.
Theft, Murder, Treason, Perjury, what not?
Moneys by Cheating, Padding, poisoning got.
Nor is it strange; so few are now the Good,
That fewer scarce were left at Noah 's Flood:
Should Sodom 's Angel here in Fire descend,
Our Nation wants ten Men to save the Land.
Fate has reserv'd us for the very Lees
Of Time, where Ill admits of no degrees:
An Age so bad old Poets ne'er could frame,
Nor find a Metal out to give't a name.
This your Experience knows, and yet for all
On faith of God and Man aloud you call,
Louder than on Queen Besse 's day the Rout
For Antichrist burnt in Effigie shout:
But, tell me, Sir, tell me, grey-headed Boy,
Do you not know what Lech'ry men enjoy
In stollen Goods? For Gods sake don't you see
How they all laugh at your simplicity,
When gravely you forewarn of Perjury?
Preach up a God and Hell, vain empty names,
Exploded now for idle thredbare shams,
Devis'd by Priests, and by none else believ'd,
E're since great Hobbes the world has undeceiv'd?
This might have past with the plain simple Race
Of our Forefathers in King Arthur 's days:
E're, mingling with corrupted forein Seed,
We learnt their Vice, and spoil'd our native Breed.
E're yet bless'd Albion , high in ancient Fame,
With her first Innocence resign'd her Name.
Fair dealing then, and downright Honesty,
And plighted Faith were good Security:
No vast Ingrossments for Estates were made,
Nor Deeds, large as the Lands, which they convey'd:
To bind a Trust there lack'd no formal ties
Of Paper, Wax, and Seals, and Witnesses,
Nor ready Coin, but sterling Promises:
Each took the other's word, and that would go
For currant then, and more than Oaths do now:
None had recourse to Chanc'ry for defence,
Where you forego your Right with less Expence:
Nor traps were yet set up for Perjurers,
That catch men by the Heads, and whip off Ears.
Then Knave and Villain, things unheard of were,
Scarce in a Century did one appear,
And he more gaz'd at than a Blazing-Star:
If a young Stripling put not off his Hat
In high respect to every Beard he met,
Tho a Lord's Son and Heir, 'twas held a crime,
That scarce deserv'd its Clergy in that time:
So venerable then was four years odds,
And grey old Heads were reverenc'd as Gods.
Now if a Friend once in an Age prove just,
If he miraculously keep his Trust,
And without force of Law deliver all
That's due, both Interest and Principal:
Prodigious wonder! fit for Stow to tell,
And stand recorded in the Chronicle;
A thing less memorable would require
As great a Monument as London Fire.
A man of Faith and Uprightness is grown
So strange a Creature both in Court and Town,
That he with Elephants may well be shown;
A Monster, more uncommon than a Whale
At Bridg , the last great Comet, or the Hail,
Than Thames his double Tide, or should he run
With Streams of Milk, or Blood to Gravesend down.
You're troubled that you've lost five hundred pound
By treacherous Fraud: another may be found,
Has lost a thousand: and another yet,
Double to that; perhaps his whole Estate.
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.
Others there be, that own a God, and fear
His Vengeance to ensue, and yet forswear:
Thus to himself, says one, Let Heaven decree
What Doom soe're, its pleasure will, of me:
Strike me with Blindness, Palsies, Leprosies,
Plague, Pox, Consumption, all the Maladies
Of both the Spittles; so I get my Prize,
And hold it sure; I'll suffer these, and more;
All Plagues are light to that of being poor.
There's not a begging Cripple in the streets
(Unless he with his Limbs has lost his Wits,
And is grown fit for Bedlam ) but no doubt,
To have his Wealth would have the Rich man's Gout.
Grant Heavens Vengeance heavy be; what tho?
The heaviest things move slowliest still we know:
And, if it punish all, that guilty be,
'Twill be an Age before it come to me:
God too is merciful, as well as just;
Therefore I'll rather his forgiveness trust,
Than live despis'd and poor, as thus I must:
I'll try, and hope, he's more a Gentleman
Than for such trivial things as these, to damn.
Besides, for the same Fact we've often known
One mount the Cart, another mount the Throne:
And foulest Deeds, attended with success,
No longer are reputed wickedness,
Disguis'd with Virtues Livery and Dress.
With these weak Arguments they fortifie
And harden up themselves in Villany:
The Rascal now dares call you to account,
And in what Court you please, joyn issue on't:
Next Term he'l bring the Action to be tri'd,
And twenty Witnesses to swear on's side:
And, if that Justice to his Cause be found,
Expects a Verdict of five hundred pound.
Thus he, who boldly dares the Guilt out-face,
For innocent shall with the Rabble pass:
While you, with Impudence and sham run down,
Are only thought the Knave by all the Town.
Mean time, poor you at Heav'n exclaim and rail,
Louder than J [ efferies ] at the Bar does bawl:
Is there a Pow'r above? and does he hear?
And can he tamely Thunderbolts forbear?
To what vain end do we with Pray'rs adore?
And on our bended knees his aid implore?
Where is his Rule, if no respect be had,
Of Innocence, or Guilt, of Good, or Bad?
And who henceforth will any credit show
To what his lying Priests teach here below?
If this be Providence; for ought I see,
Bless'd Saint , Vaninus! I shall follow thee:
Little's the odds 'twixt such a God, and that,
Which Atheist Lewis us'd to wear in's Hat .
Thus you blaspheme and rave: But pray, Sir, try
What Comforts my weak Reason can apply,
Who never yet read Plutarch , hardly saw,
And am but meanly vers'd in Seneca .
In cases dangerous and hard of cure
We have recourse to Scarborough , or Lower :
But if they don't so desperate appear,
We trust to meaner Doctors skill and care.
If there were never in the world before
So foul a deed; I'm dumb, not one word more:
A God's name then let both your sluces flow,
And all th'extravagance of sorrow show;
And tear your Hair, and thump your mournful Breast,
As if your dearest First-born were deceas'd.
'Tis granted that a greater Grief attends
Departed Moneys than departed Friends:
None ever counterfeits upon this score,
Nor need he do't; the thought of being poor
Will serve alone to make the eyes run o're.
Lost Money's griev'd with true unfeigned Tears,
More true, than Sorrow of expecting Heirs
At their dead Father's Funerals, tho here
The Back and Hands no pompous Mourning wear.
But if the like Complaints be daily found
At Westminster , and in all Courts abound;
If Bonds and Obligations can't prevail,
But Men deny their very Hand and Seal,
Sign'd with the Arms of the whole Pedegree
Of their dead Ancestors to vouch the Lye,
If Temple-Walks , and Smithfield never fail
Of plying Rogues, that set their Souls to sale
To the first Passenger, that bids a price,
And make their livelihood of Perjuries;
For God's sake why are you so delicate,
And think it hard to share the common Fate?
And why must you alone be Fav'rite thought
Of Heav'n, and we for Reprobates cast out?
The wrong you bear, is hardly worth regard,
Much less your just resentment, if compar'd
With greater out-rages to others done,
Which daily happen, and alarm the Town:
Compare the Villains who cut Throats for Bread,
Or Houses fire, of late a gainful Trade,
By which our City was in Ashes laid:
Compare the sacrilegious Burglary,
From which no place can Sanctuary be,
That rifles Churches of Communion-Plate,
Which good King Edward 's days did dedicate:
Think, who durst steal S. Alban 's Font of Brass,
That Christen'd half the Royal Scotish Race:
Who stole the Chalices at Chichester ,
In which themselves receiv'd the day before:
Or that bold daring Hand, of fresh Renown,
Who, scorning common Booty; stole a Crown:
Compare too, if you please, the horrid Plot,
With all the Perjuries to make it out,
Or make it nothing, for these last three years;
Add to it Thinne's and Godfrey 's Murderers:
And if these seem but slight and trivial things,
Add those, that have, and would have murder'd Kings.
And yet how little's this of Villany
To what our Judges oft in one day try?
This to convince you, do but travel down,
When the next Circuit comes, with Pemberton ,
Or any of the Twelve, and there but mind,
How many Rogues there are of Human kind,
And let me hear you, when you're back again,
Say, you are wrong'd, and, if you dare, complain.
None wonder, who in Essex Hundreds live,
Or Sheppy Island, to have Agues rife:
Nor would you think it much in Africa ,
If you great Lips, and short flat Noses saw:
Because 'tis so by Nature of each place;
And therefore there for no strange things they pass.
In Lands, where Pigmies are, to see a Crane
(As Kites do Chickens here) sweep up a Man
In Armour clad, with us would make a show,
And serve for entertain at Bartholmew:
Yet there it goes for no great Prodigy,
Where the whole Nation is but one foot high:
Then why, fond Man, should you so much admire,
Since Knave is of our Growth, and common here?
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.
Not so of old, the mild good Socrates ,
(Who shew'd how high without the help of Grace.
Well-cultivated Nature might be wrought)
He a more noble way of suff'ring taught,
And, tho he Guiltless drank the poisonous Dose,
Ne'er wish'd a drop to his accusing Foes.
Not so our great good Martyr'd King of late
(Could we his bless'd Example imitate)
Who, tho the great'st of mortal sufferers,
Yet kind to his rebellious Murderers,
Forgave, and bless'd them with his dying Pray'rs.
Thus, we by sound Divinity, and Sense
May purge our minds, and weed all Errors thence:
These lead us into right, nor shall we need
Other than them thro Life to be our Guide.
Revenge is but a Frailty, incident
To craz'd and sickly minds, the poor Content.
Of little Souls, unable to surmount
An Injury, too weak to bear Affront:
And this you may infer, because we find,
'Tis most in poor unthinking Woman-kind,
Who wreak their feeble spite on all they can,
And are more kin to Brute than braver Man.
But why should you imagin, Sir, that those
Escape unpunish'd, who still feel the Throes
And Pangs of a rack'd Soul, and (which is worse
Than all the Pains, which can the Body curse)
The secret gnawings of unseen Remorse?
Believe't, they suffer greater Punishment
Than Rome 's Inquisitor's could e're invent:
Nor all the Tortures, Racks, and Cruelties,
Which ancient Persecutors could devise,
Nor all, that Fox his Bloody Records tell,
Can match what Bradshaw and Ravilliac feel,
Who in their Breasts carry about their Hell.
I've read this story, but I know not where,
Whether in Hackwel , or Beard 's Theatre:
A certain Spartan, whom a Friend, like you ,
Had trusted with a Hundred pound or two,
Went to the Oracle to know if he
With safety might the Sum in trust deny.
'Twas answer'd , No, that if he durst forswear,
He should e're long for's knavery pay-dear:
Hence Fear, not Honesty, made him refund;
Yet to his cost the Sentence true he found:
Himself, his children, all his Family,
Ev'n the remot'st of his whole Pedegree,
Perish'd (as there 'tis told) in misery .
Now to apply: if such be the sad end
Of Perjury, tho but in Thought design'd,
Think, Sir, what Fate awaits-your creach'rous Friend,
Who has not only thought, but done to you
All this, and more; think, what he suffers now,
And think, what every Villain suffers else.
That dares, like him, be faithless, base, and false.
Pale Horror, ghastly Fear, and black Despair
Pursue his steps, and dog him wheresoe're
He goes, and if from his loath'd self he fly,
To herd, like wounded Deer, in company,
These strait creep in and pall his mirth and joy.
The choicest Dainties, ev'n by Lumly drest,
Afford no Relish to his sickly Tast,
Insipid all, as Damocles his Feast
Ev'n Wine, the greatest Blessing of Mankind,
The best support of the dejected mind,
Applied to his dull spirits, warms no more
Than to his Corps it could past Life restore.
Darkness he fears, nor dares he trust his Bed
Without a Candle watching by his side:
And, if the wakeful Troubles of his Breast
To his toss'd Limbs allow one moments Rest,
Straitways the groans of Ghosts, and hideous Screams
Of tortur'd Spirits haunt his frightful Dreams:
Strait there return to his tormented mind
His perjur'd Act, his injur'd God, and Friend:
Strait he imagins you before his Eyes,
Ghastly of shape, prodigious of size,
With glaring Eyes, cleft Foot, and monstrous Tail,
And bigger than the Giants at Guild-hall ,
Stalking with horrid strides across the Room,
And guards of Fiends to drag him to his Doom:
Hereat he falls in dreadful Agonies,
And dead cold sweats his trembling Members seize:
Then starting wakes, and with a dismal cry,
Calls to his aid his frighted Family;
There owns the Crime, and vows upon his knees
The sacred Pledg next morning to release.
These are the men, whom the least Terrors daunt,
Who at the sight of their own shadows faint;
These, if it chance to Lighten, are agast,
And quake for fear, lest every Flash should blast:
These swoon away at the first Thunder-clap,
As if 'twere not, what usually does hap,
The casual cracking of a Cloud, but sent
By angry Heaven for their Punishment:
And, if unhurt they scape the Tempest now,
Still dread the greater Vengeance to ensue:
These the least Symptoms of a Fever fright,
Water high-colour'd, want of rest at night,
Or a disorder'd Pulse strait makes them shrink,
And presently for fear they're ready sink
Into their Graves: their time (think they) is come,
And Heav'n in judgment now has sent their Doom.
Nor dare they, tho in whisper, waft a Prayer,
Lest it by chance should reach th' Almighty's ear,
And wake his sleeping Vengeance, which before
So long has their impieties forbore.
These are the thoughts which guilty wretches haunt,
Yet enter'd, they still grow more impudent:
After a Crime perhaps they now and then
Feel pangs and strugglings of Remorse within,
But strait return to their old course agen:
They, who have once thrown Shame and Conscience by,
Ne'er after make a stop in Villany:
Hurried along, down the vast steep they go,
And find, 'tis all a Precipice below.
Ev'n this perfidious Friend of yours, no doubt,
Will not with single wickedness give out;
Have patience but a while, you'l shortly see
His hand held up at Bar for Felony:
You'l see the sentenc'd wretch for Punishment
To Scilly Isles, or the Caribbes sent:
Or (if I may his surer Fate divine)
Hung like Boroski , for a Gibbet-Sign:
Then may you glut Revenge, and feast your Eyes
With the dear object of his Miseries:
And then at length convinc'd, with joy you'l find
That the just God is neither deaf, nor blind.