Ars catchpolaria, or the art of destroying mankind Intended as a Vade-mecum or Pocket Companion to Messengers and other executors of the Law [by James Wilson] |
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A POEM, MOST HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO SIR JOHN FIELDING, LONDON. |
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 | Ars catchpolaria, or the art of destroying mankind |  |
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A POEM, MOST HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO SIR JOHN FIELDING, LONDON.
Nemo sine crimine vivit.
Ye judges wrapt in condemnation,
delighting to weed God's creation,
Say, if the rogues were pull'd away,
Would not society decay?
A fiddle never is in Tone,
When all the strings are unison;
If ev'ry Man were Neal the Printer,
This world wou'd not be worth a splinter;
For all mankind by Divine Grace,
Are form'd to fill their proper place.
Behold Claudero, as contrast
To bigot and enthusiast:
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And see the fool in Jamie Duff;
Or, read his lordship's wild relation
Of human race in degradation,
While others link them to the skies;
Transplanting them to paradise.
Why, if we had no whore or rogue,
Ev'n honesty wou'd lose its vogue.
The judges son oft turns a Thief,
His wife and daughters whores, the chief;
Ev'n wet and dry, as darkness, light,
By interchanges, give delight.
How can a judge correct the whore
Who has oblig'd him oft before?
How can he thieves or rogues controul,
When weigh'd his avaricious soul?
See king of pruss escape the rope
And halters; far less robbers stop;
And law seems but a trap of state,
To hang low rogues, and save the great:
Most of the pilf'ring in our nation,
Alas! is owing to starvation;
For 'tis a fact, or I'll be bang'd,
Far worse to starve than to be hang'd.
'Tis no great virtue in the rich,
For stealing to have little itch;
But dire necessity invents
A sinful shift, for want of Rents.
The best way to reclaim a thief
Is, feed the rogue with good roast beef;
For whipping will have no effect;
And death succeeds a corded neck.
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What shall mechanics do for bread?
Sure in this kingdom few will stay,
That can escape by any way.
Labour to health and wealth conduces,
But punishment more rogues produces;
Ev'n so a hedge the closer grows,
The oft'ner gard'ners top its rows:
The milder laws are in a state,
More honesty they do create:
For when a rogue is once disgrac'd,
To ev'ry crime he turns bare-fac'd.
When judges act with moderation,
They are the glory of a nation;
Rogues may be hunted and pursu'd,
But never finally subdu'd.
The task will be Herculean,
An office for a foolish man;
For ev'n suppose rogues off were tore,
The honest folk wou'd soon get more:
Like Sysiphus the judge may groan,
To roll eternally the stone,
Which ay rebounding down the hill,
The wretch is damn'd to roll it still.
The growth of whores too in our nation,
Is plainly owing to starvation:
For, give the lasses work, and feed them,
To honesty you soon will breed them:
'Tis meagre want, when destitute;
That makes ev'n virtue prostitute;
And humble beauty often must
Be sacrific'd to op'lent lust;
Which, void of sentiment, or shame,
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Were I disposed here to joke,
I'd beg to hang the honest folk;
The judge might then his task fulfill,
And very little blood too, spill.
'Tis neither Englishman nor Scott,
That lives on earth, and sinneth not:
Let moderation justice bend,
And mercy be your darling end,
All God's creation will approve,
Reclaim'd by goodness and by love.
| Ars catchpolaria, or the art of destroying mankind | |