Classic Poem

I.

Thou Contradiction to Man's Ease,
Tho' call'd Conveniency to Life,
Design'd our Comfort's best Increase,
Yet Cause of Danger, Care, Fear, Strife;
Man's Happiness, to Misery;
His Plenty, to Necessity;

II.

Design'd, of Old, th' Officious Aid,
To Commerce and Society,
Art now the World's worst Make-bate made,
To make Man his own Enemy;
Once, Soder of each broken Vow,
The Cause of Friends Division, now;

III.

Design'd, to make Life's Burthen light,
Its heavy'st Load and Care; yet art,
Meant to keep Faith and Love upright,
Now, the Corruption of each Heart;
More Cause of Death, less Aid to Life,
Than Steel, which now makes here less Strife;

IV.

For Guilty Steel was never known,
But Open Mischiefs here to do;
But by thee, Private Wrongs are done,
Who most art thy Preserver's Foe;
Steel can the Body but annoy,
You Soul and Body both destroy;

V.

Nay Steel does now your Office do,
That very Melancholy Cure,
Poor Mortals have, for Want of you,
Whilst more you make them still endure;
From Heavy Hearts, for Want of thee,
And Spleen you give them, Steel does free;

VI.

In all Obstructions of Man's Ease,
Steel is more Sovereign than you;
Whilst you their Cares and Pains increase,
Men's Bus'ness Steel will surely do,
And them from Cares and Fears will free,
From being Sick, for, or by thee;

VII.

Men falsly call you Sovereign,
Who, for Want, are no Remedy;
Who give the Restless still more Pain,
The more, for Ease, they by you try;
Like other Remedies, so you,
In curing one Grief, give us two;

VIII.

You, but a Quackish Cure, then are
Pretending, to be general;
To give Ease, you give Pain, Care, Fear,
The same Cure of all Ills, in all;
A Cure, worse than is the Disease,
Our certain Pain, uncertain Ease;

IX.

A Cure then you, like others, are,
If Man too much does take of you;
You, of his Hopes, becomes his Fear,
His Grief of his Relief, will grow;
Whose Dangers, Pains, will more increase,
The more he Safety seeks, and Ease.