Classic Poem

Ti s not the silver nor gold for it self
 That makes men adore it, but 'tis for its power:
For no man does doat upon pelf because pelf,
 But all Court the Lady in hope of her dower:
The wonders that now in our dayes we behold,
Done by the irresistable power of gold,
Our Zeal, and our Love, and Allegiance do hold.

This purchaseth Kingdoms, Kings, Scepters, and Crowns;
 Wins Battels, and conquers the Conquerors bold;
Takes Bulwarks, and Castles, and Cities, and Towns,
 And our prime Laws are wriTin letters of gold;
'Tis this that our Parliament calls and creates,
Turns Kings into Keepers, and Kingdomes to States,
And peopledomes these into highdomes translates.

This made our black Synod to sit still so long,
 To make themselves rich, by making us poor;
This made our bold Army so daring and strong,
 And made them turn them, like Geese, out of door;
'Twas this made our Covenant-makers to make it,
And this made our Priests for to make us to take it,
And this made both Makers and Takers forsake it.

'Twas this spawn'd the dunghill Crew of Committees and 'strators,
 Who live by picking the Crockadile Parliaments gums;
This first made, and then prospered the Rebells and Traytors,
 And made Gentry of those that were the Nations scums:
This Herald gives Armes not for merit, but store,
And gives Coats to those that did sell Coats before,
If their pockets be but lin'd well with argent and ore.

This, plots can devise, and discover what they are;
 This, makes the great Fellons the lesser condemn;
This, sets those on the Bench, that should stand at the Bar,
 Who Judge such as by right ought to Execute them;
Gives the boysterous Clown his unsufferable pride,
Makes Beggars, and Fools, and Usurpers to ride,
Whiles ruin'd Propriators run by their side.
Stamp either the Armes of the State or the King,
 St. George or the Breeches, C. R. or O. P.
The Cross or the Fiddle, 'tis all the same thing;
 This, still is the Queen whosoe'er the King be;
This, lines our Religion, builds Doctrine & Truth,
With Zeal and the Spirit the factious endueth,
To club with St. Katharine , or sweet Sister Ruth .

'Tis money makes Lawyers give Judgement, or plead
 On this side, or that side, on both sides, or neither;
This makes young men Clerks that can scarce write or read,
 And spawns arbitrary Orders as various as the weather;
This makes your blew Lecturers pray, preach, and prate
Without reason or sence against Church, King, or State,
To shew the thin lining of his twice-covered pate.

'Tis money makes Earls, Lords, Knights, and Esquires
 Without breeding, descent, wit, learning, or merit;
This makes Ropers, and Ale-drapers, Sheriffs of Shires,
 Whose trade is not so low, nor so base as their spirit:
This Justices makes, and wise ones we know,
Furr'd Aldermen too, and Mayors also;
This makes the old Wife trot, and makes the Mare to go.

This makes your blew aprons Right Worshipfull;
 And for this we stand bare, and before them do fall;
They leave their young heirs well fleeced with wooll,
 Whom we must call Squires, and then they pay all:
Who with beggarly souls, though their bodies be gawdy,
Court the pale Chamber-maid, and nick-name her a Lady,
And for want of good wit, they do swear and talk bawdy.

This Mariages makes, 'tis a Center of love,
 It draws on the man, and it pricks up the woman
Birth, virtue, and parts no affection can move,
 Whilst this makes a Lord stoop to the Brat of a Broomman;
This gives virtue and beauty to the Lasses that you wooe,
Makes women of all sorts and ages to do;
'Tis the soul of the world, and the worldling too.

This procures us whores, hawks, hounds and hares;
 'Tis this keeps your Groom, and your Groom keeps your Gelding;
This built Citizens Wives, as well as wares;
 And this makes your coy Lady so coming and yielding;
This buys us good Sack, which revives like the spring,
'Tis this your Poetical fancies do bring;
And this makes you as merry as we that do sing.