THE WORLD.
Father, Son, and Minstrels.
Father.
I.
To the world new and its deceitful way,
This coistrel son of mine is all my care;
Ye minstrels, warn him how with rede he stray
Where gilded vice doth spread his mascill'd snare;
To getting wealth I would he should be bred,
And crowns of ruddy gold, not glory, round his head.
1 Min.
II.
My name is Interest, 'tis I
Do into all bosoms fly;
Each one's hidden secret's mine;
None so worthy, good, and digne,
But will find it to their cost,
Interest will rule the roast.
I to every one give laws,
Self is first in every cause.
2 Min.
III.
I am a faytour flame
Of gleamès melancholy,
Love some call my name,
Some do bename me Folly.
In sprites of melting mould
I set my burning seal;
To me a usurer's gold
Doth not a pin avail;
I prey upon the health,
And from good counsel flee;
The man who would get wealth
Must never think of me.
3 Min.
IV.
I am the Sprite of Pride, my 'spiring head
Must reach the clouds, and still be rising high;
Too little is the earth to be my bed,
Too narrow for my breathing-place, the sky.
Daynous I see the earth beneath me lie.
But to my betters I so little 'gree,
Beneath a shadow of a shade I be;
'Tis to the small alone that I can multiply.
4 Min.
V.
I am the Sprite of Usury; look around,
The airs about me thieves do represent;
Bloodstainèd robbers spring from out the ground,
And airy visions swarm around my ente.
Oh! save my monies, it is their intent
To nim the red God of my frighted sprite;
What joy can usurers have, or day or night?
5 Min.
VI.
Vice I am called, on gold full oft I ride,
Full fair unto the sight for aye I seem;
My ugliness with golden veils I hide,
Laying my lovers in a silken dream.
But when my untrue treasures have been tried,
Then do I shew all filthiness and rou,
And those I have in net would fain my gripe eschew.
6 Min.
VII.
I am great Death; all ken me by the name,
But none can say how I do loose the sprite;
Good men my tardying delay do blame,
But most rich usurers from me take a flight;
Mickle of wealth I see, where'er I came,
Doëth my terror mickle multiply,
And maketh them afraid to live or die.
Fa.
VIII.
How! villain Minstrels, and is this your rede?
Away, away! I will not give a curse.
My son, my son, of this my speech take heed,
Nothing is good that bringeth not to purse.
