Classic Poem

As needy gallants in the scriv'ners' hands
Court the rich knave that gripes their mortgaged lands,
The first fat buck of all the season's sent
And keeper takes no fee in compliment:
The dotage of some Englishmen is such
To fawn on those who ruin them, the Dutch.
They shall have all rather than make a war
With those who of the same religion are.
The Straits, the Guinea trade, the herrings too,
Nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you.
Some are resolved not to find out the cheat,
But cuckold-like, love him who does the feat:
What injuries soe'er upon us fall,
Yet still the same religion answers all.
Religion wheedled you to civil war,
Drew English blood, and Dutchmen now would spare:
Be gulled no longer, for you'll find it true,
They have no more religion, faith--than you;
Interest's the God they worship in their State,
And you, I take it, have not much for that.
Well monarchies may own religion's name,
But States are atheists in their very frame.
They share a sin, and such proportions fall
That like a stink, 'tis nothing to 'em all.
How they love England, you shall see this day:
No map shews Holland truer than our play:
Their pictures and inscriptions well we know;
We may be bold one medal more to show,
View then their falsehoods, rapine, cruelty,
And think what once they were, they still would be:
But hope not either language, plot, or art,
'Twas writ in haste, but with an English heart.
And least hope wit; in Dutchmen that would be
As much improper as would honesty.