 | The Knave of Harts |  |
A couetous Knaue.
This sonne of Mammon, monies cursed slaue,wil part with nothing, & would all things haue
House, land, lease, shipping, cattell, field and wood,
By any meanes, his conscience is so good.
Tell him of heauen and celestiall things,
Of hell, that horror, woe, and torment brings
Of Iudgement, where all sinners must appeare,
Of Death, that giues nor day, nor houre, nor yeer.
He lookes as though he vnderstands you not:
And sayes: there's little mony to be got:
Tis a dead world, no stirring, he hath crosses:
Rehearseth vp a bead-rowle of his losses:
And sighes, as thogh his hart would break within,
And swearing sayes; VVhat villaine I haue bin
To credit knaues, that haue deceiu'd me so?
But from this houre Ile ne'er trust friend nor foe:
Come Father, Brother, Vncle, Coosen, Friend,
Ile sweare I made a vow, I will not lend
To any breathes aliue, nor will be drawne
To lend a penny, but on two-pence pawne.
| The Knave of Harts | |