The works of Mr. Thomas Brown Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings |
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 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
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The Mourning Poet: Or, The unknown Comforts of Imprisonment, written in the Year, 1703. and Calculated for the Meridian of the three populous Universities of the Queen's Bench, the Marshalsea, and the Fleet; but may indifferenly serve any Prison in the Kingdom of England, Dominion of Wales, or Town of Berwick upon Tweed.
Since my hard Fate has doom'd me to a Jayl,
Some scolding Muse direct me how to rail:
And let this Curse, by my ill Genius sent,
As 'tis my Penance, be my Argument.
The Scene of Life with Black and White spread o'er,
Here shows us Want, and there superfluous Store.
The Rich Man and the Poor be then my Theme;
Having been both, I best can judge of them.
Some scolding Muse direct me how to rail:
And let this Curse, by my ill Genius sent,
As 'tis my Penance, be my Argument.
The Scene of Life with Black and White spread o'er,
Here shows us Want, and there superfluous Store.
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Having been both, I best can judge of them.
A Rich Man, what is he? Has he a Frame
Distinct from others? Or a better Name?
Has he more Legs, more Arms, more Eyes, more Brains?
Has he less Care, less Crosses, or less Pains?
Can Riches keep the Mortal Wretch from Death?
Or can new Treasures purchase a new Breath?
Or does Heaven send its Love and Mercy more
To Mammon's pamper'd Sons than to the Poor?
If not, why should the Fool take so much State,
Exalt himself and others under-rate?
'Tis senceless Ignorance that sooths his Pride,
And makes him laugh at all the World beside.
But when Excesses bring on Gout or Stone,
All his vain Mirth and Gayety are gone.
Then to make any Truce with his Disease,
And purchase the least interval of Ease,
He'd all his ill-got Magazines resign,
And at Health's Altar Sacrifice his Coin:
And when he dies, for all he looks so high,
He'll make as vile a Skeleton as I.
Distinct from others? Or a better Name?
Has he more Legs, more Arms, more Eyes, more Brains?
Has he less Care, less Crosses, or less Pains?
Can Riches keep the Mortal Wretch from Death?
Or can new Treasures purchase a new Breath?
Or does Heaven send its Love and Mercy more
To Mammon's pamper'd Sons than to the Poor?
If not, why should the Fool take so much State,
Exalt himself and others under-rate?
'Tis senceless Ignorance that sooths his Pride,
And makes him laugh at all the World beside.
But when Excesses bring on Gout or Stone,
All his vain Mirth and Gayety are gone.
Then to make any Truce with his Disease,
And purchase the least interval of Ease,
He'd all his ill-got Magazines resign,
And at Health's Altar Sacrifice his Coin:
And when he dies, for all he looks so high,
He'll make as vile a Skeleton as I.
To number out the several sorts of Poor,
Would be to count the Billows on the Shore;
My Muse shall therefore all the rest decline,
And to th'industrious Man her self confine;
Who with incessant Labour strives to live,
And yet by cruel Accidents can't thrive.
To Trace the Original Fountain of his Woe,
From whence the Gross of all his Ills do flow;
With War I must begin, whose fatal Doom
Ruins all Trade as well Abroad as Home.
The dire effects the Merchant feels the first,
And all the other Trades by War are curs'd;
The Vintners, whom I own I pity most
Are daily in this cursed scramble lost.
And who can wonder that so many fail,
When righteous Claret truckes to vile Ale,
And Barcelona stoops to Belgick Mild and Stale.
War (to whose Court all lesser Evils join)
First help'd to circumcise our Current Coin.
'Twas a fine Harvest, when the Clipping Race,
To the conniving Government's disgrace,
Cut short his Majesty within the Ring,
And dock'd his Horses Tail (God bless the King:)
Then Goldsmiths, Scriveners, and the bulky Tribe
Of monied Knaves, too num'rous to describe,
Batten'd apace on this unrighteous Trade,
And at the Realm's expence large Fortune's made;
While the poor half-starv'd Slaves that for them wrought,
Within the fatal Toil were daily caught;
And to relieve them in their Tyburn Qualm,
Troop'd off to the dull Musick of a Psalm.
Would be to count the Billows on the Shore;
My Muse shall therefore all the rest decline,
And to th'industrious Man her self confine;
Who with incessant Labour strives to live,
And yet by cruel Accidents can't thrive.
To Trace the Original Fountain of his Woe,
From whence the Gross of all his Ills do flow;
With War I must begin, whose fatal Doom
Ruins all Trade as well Abroad as Home.
The dire effects the Merchant feels the first,
And all the other Trades by War are curs'd;
The Vintners, whom I own I pity most
Are daily in this cursed scramble lost.
And who can wonder that so many fail,
When righteous Claret truckes to vile Ale,
And Barcelona stoops to Belgick Mild and Stale.
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First help'd to circumcise our Current Coin.
'Twas a fine Harvest, when the Clipping Race,
To the conniving Government's disgrace,
Cut short his Majesty within the Ring,
And dock'd his Horses Tail (God bless the King:)
Then Goldsmiths, Scriveners, and the bulky Tribe
Of monied Knaves, too num'rous to describe,
Batten'd apace on this unrighteous Trade,
And at the Realm's expence large Fortune's made;
While the poor half-starv'd Slaves that for them wrought,
Within the fatal Toil were daily caught;
And to relieve them in their Tyburn Qualm,
Troop'd off to the dull Musick of a Psalm.
The Charge of War out-ballanc'd soon our Trade,
As this advanc'd, that palpably decay'd.
And as 'twas ten Years War that ruin'd Troy,
So ten years War did England's Wealth destroy.
War, fatal War, the murderer of Trade,
Occasion'd heavy Taxes for its aid;
It set Mercurial Heads at work t'invent
Most easie ways to serve the Government:
NEALE started first, to raise a speedy Sum,
A MILLION LOTTERY, let who will come,
No Loss can happen, but most certain Gain;
Sell Lands and Houses, ne'er was such a Main.
This was a general and inviting Bait,
And did so luckily relieve the State,
That the Groom-Porter had Encouragement,
New specious Schemes and Projects to invent.
As this advanc'd, that palpably decay'd.
And as 'twas ten Years War that ruin'd Troy,
So ten years War did England's Wealth destroy.
War, fatal War, the murderer of Trade,
Occasion'd heavy Taxes for its aid;
It set Mercurial Heads at work t'invent
Most easie ways to serve the Government:
NEALE started first, to raise a speedy Sum,
A MILLION LOTTERY, let who will come,
No Loss can happen, but most certain Gain;
Sell Lands and Houses, ne'er was such a Main.
This was a general and inviting Bait,
And did so luckily relieve the State,
That the Groom-Porter had Encouragement,
New specious Schemes and Projects to invent.
Next, the old Maids and Batch'lers were cajoll'd,
Fourteen per Cent. for Life, and well enroll'd:
They drew their Cash from Commerce and from Trade,
And lavishly adventur'd on this Aid,
Long may they live, and still (as now) be paid.
At the Heels of this, Survivorship came in,
('Tis hard to stop, tho' easie to begin)
From six per Cent. t'increase as Children die,
So promising a Fund who wou'd not try?
Thus eager Parents paid their Money down,
To make their Children Vassals to the Crown,
And with much Ceremonie beg their own.
Fourteen per Cent. for Life, and well enroll'd:
They drew their Cash from Commerce and from Trade,
And lavishly adventur'd on this Aid,
Long may they live, and still (as now) be paid.
At the Heels of this, Survivorship came in,
('Tis hard to stop, tho' easie to begin)
From six per Cent. t'increase as Children die,
So promising a Fund who wou'd not try?
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To make their Children Vassals to the Crown,
And with much Ceremonie beg their own.
At last, resolv'd new Methods still t'explore,
As if we ne'er cou'd drain the Nation's store;
The Bank peept up, and all before it bore.
As Rivers dutifully glide to pay
Their liquid Tribute, to their Parent Sea.
Nor is it strange; Av'rice is always wise,
And Profit, say the Learned, never lies.
Int'rest at twelve per Cent. for Stock advanc'd,
Stock to One hundred thirty Pounds enhanc'd;
So he that had a Thousand Pounds in there,
For Thirteen Hundred strait cou'd sell his Share;
Prodigious Gain! Such Principal, such Use
Th'Exchequer pays; What must th'Exchequer loose?
As if we ne'er cou'd drain the Nation's store;
The Bank peept up, and all before it bore.
As Rivers dutifully glide to pay
Their liquid Tribute, to their Parent Sea.
Nor is it strange; Av'rice is always wise,
And Profit, say the Learned, never lies.
Int'rest at twelve per Cent. for Stock advanc'd,
Stock to One hundred thirty Pounds enhanc'd;
So he that had a Thousand Pounds in there,
For Thirteen Hundred strait cou'd sell his Share;
Prodigious Gain! Such Principal, such Use
Th'Exchequer pays; What must th'Exchequer loose?
But say, my Muse, what harm was it to Trade,
If the Exchequer Cent. per Cent. had paid,
When the Realm's wants requir'd a present Aid?
It made the Nation's Debt call for Supplies,
By doubling both the Customs and Excise;
It fram'd the Capitation by Degrees,
Births, Burials, Batchelours, Lights, Lawyers Fees,
Stock, Money, Titles empty Houses pay,
Altho' the Tenants often run away.
If the Exchequer Cent. per Cent. had paid,
When the Realm's wants requir'd a present Aid?
It made the Nation's Debt call for Supplies,
By doubling both the Customs and Excise;
It fram'd the Capitation by Degrees,
Births, Burials, Batchelours, Lights, Lawyers Fees,
Stock, Money, Titles empty Houses pay,
Altho' the Tenants often run away.
All these, and many more Inventions joyn'd
To pamper War, while sickly Trade declin'd:
Set up Stock-jobbers on the Nation's Back,
Whose weight compleated poor Britannia's Wreck.
These Vermin being hatch'd, the numerous Brood
Increas'd, and fatten'd on the Trades-Man's Blood;
If Tallies were deliver'd on some Aid,
Stock-jobber fixt, what Money shou'd be paid.
The Legislators gave Encouragement
For Men to work, and trust the Government;
But tho' a general Good they thus design'd,
Those rav'nons Harpies of the Exchange combin'd
To frustrate All; and deaf to th'Nation's Cries,
Ev'n our best Laws turn'd into Merchandise;
So that poor Trades-Men for a Hundred Pound,
For Fifty with these Rascals must compound,
Or else to Gaol; their Wants call for supply,
And ready Cash at any rate they'll buy:
Thus all those Millions given for Supplies,
Those Caterpillars still monopolize;
And if we find not out some speedy Way
To kill these Worms that on our Vitals prey,
Commerce, the Nation's Glory, soon will fail,
And half our Traders perish in a Jayl.
Oh, who can bear to see so many Hands
Lie idle, like uncultivated Lands;
Devour'd by Want, only to gratify
Senseless Revenge, and brutal Cruelty?
To pamper War, while sickly Trade declin'd:
Set up Stock-jobbers on the Nation's Back,
Whose weight compleated poor Britannia's Wreck.
These Vermin being hatch'd, the numerous Brood
Increas'd, and fatten'd on the Trades-Man's Blood;
If Tallies were deliver'd on some Aid,
Stock-jobber fixt, what Money shou'd be paid.
The Legislators gave Encouragement
For Men to work, and trust the Government;
But tho' a general Good they thus design'd,
Those rav'nons Harpies of the Exchange combin'd
To frustrate All; and deaf to th'Nation's Cries,
Ev'n our best Laws turn'd into Merchandise;
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For Fifty with these Rascals must compound,
Or else to Gaol; their Wants call for supply,
And ready Cash at any rate they'll buy:
Thus all those Millions given for Supplies,
Those Caterpillars still monopolize;
And if we find not out some speedy Way
To kill these Worms that on our Vitals prey,
Commerce, the Nation's Glory, soon will fail,
And half our Traders perish in a Jayl.
Oh, who can bear to see so many Hands
Lie idle, like uncultivated Lands;
Devour'd by Want, only to gratify
Senseless Revenge, and brutal Cruelty?
Rome, whose Imperial sway the World obey'd,
Justice the Rule of all her Actions made;
And tho' most Nations dreaded her Alarms,
Was no less famous for her Laws than Arms.
Among the rest this justly claims a place,
And let not England think it a Disgrace,
The glorious Empress of the World to trace.
“The Debtor had one part, the Creditor two;
Revenge had nothing, nothing was her due.
Credit with us the whole Estate doth seize,
And on the wretched Debtor's Body preys;
Heav'ns brightest Gift, Compassion's out of Door;
And he's a graceless Reprobate that's poor.
Justice the Rule of all her Actions made;
And tho' most Nations dreaded her Alarms,
Was no less famous for her Laws than Arms.
Among the rest this justly claims a place,
And let not England think it a Disgrace,
The glorious Empress of the World to trace.
“The Debtor had one part, the Creditor two;
Revenge had nothing, nothing was her due.
Credit with us the whole Estate doth seize,
And on the wretched Debtor's Body preys;
Heav'ns brightest Gift, Compassion's out of Door;
And he's a graceless Reprobate that's poor.
In France this Law does still maintain a sway,
If Trades-Men prove incapable to pay;
Six Persons of known Truth and Probity,
Make inquest what their whole Estate may be:
When this is duly done, two parts of three,
They to the Creditor's allotted see:
And then one third to th'Debtor is convey'd,
That he may have some Stock again to Trade;
How worthy praise are such good Acts as these?
Considering too there's not a penny Fees.
Why should we then our English Laws advance,
And scornfully expose the Laws of France?
Since Subjects, fellow Subjects can destroy,
And rob us of our boasted Liberty.
In Holland, if a Creditor thinks fit,
His Debtor to a Prison to commit,
At his own Charge he must maintain him there,
Not let him starve, as Creditors do here.
If Trades-Men prove incapable to pay;
Six Persons of known Truth and Probity,
Make inquest what their whole Estate may be:
When this is duly done, two parts of three,
They to the Creditor's allotted see:
And then one third to th'Debtor is convey'd,
That he may have some Stock again to Trade;
How worthy praise are such good Acts as these?
Considering too there's not a penny Fees.
Why should we then our English Laws advance,
And scornfully expose the Laws of France?
Since Subjects, fellow Subjects can destroy,
And rob us of our boasted Liberty.
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His Debtor to a Prison to commit,
At his own Charge he must maintain him there,
Not let him starve, as Creditors do here.
A Prison! Heav'ns, I loath the hated name,
Famine's Metropolis, the sink of Shame,
A nauseous Sepulchre, whose craving Womb
Hourly inters poor Mortals in its Tomb;
By every Plague, and every Ill possest,
Ev'n Purgatory itself to thee's a Jest;
Emblem of Hell, Nursery of Vice,
Thou crawling University of Lice:
Where Wretches numberless to ease their Pains,
With Smoak and Ale delude their pensive Chains.
How shall I thee avoid? Or, with what Spell
Dissolve th'Enchantment of thy Magic Cell?
Ev'n Fox himself can't boast so many Martyrs,
As yearly fall within thy wretched Quarters.
Money I've none, and Debts I cannot pay
Unless my Vermin will those Debts defray.
Not scolding Wife, nor Inquisition's worse,
Thou'rt ev'ry Mischief cramm'd into one Curse.
May we at last the Senate's Mercy find,
And breath (what Heav'n bestows on all Mankind;
What needy Clowns as well as Monarchs share)
The common Benefit of wholsome Air:
Then to your Clemency we'll Altars raise,
And with united Voice our Benefactors praise.
Famine's Metropolis, the sink of Shame,
A nauseous Sepulchre, whose craving Womb
Hourly inters poor Mortals in its Tomb;
By every Plague, and every Ill possest,
Ev'n Purgatory itself to thee's a Jest;
Emblem of Hell, Nursery of Vice,
Thou crawling University of Lice:
Where Wretches numberless to ease their Pains,
With Smoak and Ale delude their pensive Chains.
How shall I thee avoid? Or, with what Spell
Dissolve th'Enchantment of thy Magic Cell?
Ev'n Fox himself can't boast so many Martyrs,
As yearly fall within thy wretched Quarters.
Money I've none, and Debts I cannot pay
Unless my Vermin will those Debts defray.
Not scolding Wife, nor Inquisition's worse,
Thou'rt ev'ry Mischief cramm'd into one Curse.
May we at last the Senate's Mercy find,
And breath (what Heav'n bestows on all Mankind;
What needy Clowns as well as Monarchs share)
The common Benefit of wholsome Air:
Then to your Clemency we'll Altars raise,
And with united Voice our Benefactors praise.
So pray Threescore Thousand.
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |