University of Virginia Library

Since my very good Friend, but now under the Hatches,
And as poor as a Seller of Brooms and Card-matches,
Thou hast left off thy Quibbles, thy Songs, and thy Catches.

Prithee leave off thy Sober dull Plodding and thinking,
And into thy Pockets get Ready and Chink in,
And then I'le allow thee a Time for good Drinking.

For till then be thy Parts ne're so Modish and Florid,
Till with Darby's and Smelts thou thy Purse hast well stored,
There's a Fool in thy Face, and an Ass in thy Forehead.

What a Pox do I care for a Monyless Fellow?
If he speaks ne're so Witty he seems but to Bellow,
If he wants the true Blessings of White and of Yellow.

Till thou Mony hast got, thy Brisk Humour will falter,
Till thou hast it ne're spare neither Temple nor Altar,
But a Word by the by, Have a care of the Halter.

But let happen What will, get some Mony how er'e,
Cog, Flatter, Dissemble, Lye, Swear, and Forswear,
And attempt any Action a brave Fellow dare.

Be a Pimp, or a Pander, a Sharper, or Bully,
A Decoy, a Trappan, or a Counterfeit Cully,
And never give ore till thou'st done the trick fully.

Swear old Men are young, and Queen Blowze is a Beauty,
Undo pretty Virgins, tempts Wives from their Duty,
And be true to all Interests you think will be true t'ye.

Out-rail a Bilk't Coachman, Out-banter a Wit,
Out-lye a News-writer, out-promise a Cit,
Strive thy self to out-do if the Thing thou canst hit.

More Women deceive than did Wickham of late,
Religion or Bawdy or any thing Prate,
And put on all Shapes so thou get but the Plate.

Prithee never want Mony what ever may lack thee,
For when thou hast Mony no Friends will forsake thee,
But if thour't without it the Devil may take thee.

Thy Friend (if thou wilt be thine own)

What mighty Magick does the World betwitch,
That all Mankind thus Covet to be Rich?
Daily plough up the raging stormy Main,
From East to West, and all in chase of Gain;
Climb highest Hills, through sandy Deserts go,
Over partcht Plains, and Mountains clad in Snow;
The various Heats and Colds of Climates scorn,
Of both the Tropicks, Cancer, Capricorn;
Deprive their Nights of Rest, their Days of Pleasure,
Grow Hoary-headed in pursuit of Treasure;
Swear and Forswear, Equivocate and Lye,
Stick at no Oaths nor blackest Perjury;
Sons kill their Fathers, Brother fight with Brother,
And all Mankind prove Wolves to one another;
Friends sheath their Swords in Bosoms of their Friends,
When with kind Love their Interest contends;
With wild confusion all the World spread o're,
Occasion'd by the search of Shining Oar:
The Secret would some Spirit but unfold,
From whence proceeds this mighty thirst of Gold?

Cease Foolish Muse, thy Admiration cease,
Or to know nothing of the World confess;
For 'tis a certain Maxim plain and clear,
Want of a Blessing makes a Blessing dear:
What Monied Man wrackt with Gout, would not,
With a young healthful Beggar change his Lot?
With wholesom Scraps a vig'rous health maintain,
Rather than lye on Velvet Couch in pain?
If Love of Mony be the Root of Evil,
The want of it is certainly the Devil:
A Truth which ever was and ever will
Be known to all the Brethren of the Quill:
Their Purses like Sprink-tides are sometimes swel'd,
And to the Brims with smiling Angels fill'd:
But Tides of Ebb do soon their Pockets drain,
And then they're at low Water mark again.
Since then it is not by the Gods allow'd,
Poets should always find so great a good,
Wee'l rail at what is not within our Power,
As did the Fox, who swore the Grapes were sour;
Recount the various Wonders hourly done,
By Monies strange effective Force alone,
And the surprizing Miracles unfold,
Done by the Vertue of Almighty Gold.

Room for my Lord there—be uncover'd Slave,
Bear back ye Vermin, cries a sawcy Knave,
Walking before a Spark whose vast Estate
Did's Title first, and then Respect create:
Whose Grand-father perhaps was one so civil,
For Gold to go directly to the Devil,
That his dear Hony-suckle Babe might be
A Knight, or else a Man of Quality:
See how he struts—observe the humble grin,
Which by his Flatterers is return'd again;
Mark how they bow with most fantastick cringes,
As if their Bodies mov'd by Springs and Hinges.
A supple Slave then whispers in his Ear,
My Lord, Gad judg me, if you dont appear,
The most accomplish'd Person in the World,
Your Shape so clean, your Wigg so neatly Curl'd;
Nay you'r the only Man at Court, which ere
Knew how to Dress—By Gad my Lord you wear
Your Cloaths with such becoming Negligence,
As if you only put them on by Chance;
The Ladies all have laid their Hearts at stake,
And sigh and languish only for your sake.
At this my Lord affords a gracious Smile,
Listning to's fulsom Flattery all the while.
By this time to attend his Levee, comes
A needy Poet, twirling of his Thumbs,
And looking simply humbly craves, my Lord,
The mighty Honour would be pleas'd t'afford,
As to become a Patron to his Play,
That is, in other words, be pleas'd to pay
For fulsom Praise, cramp't in a florid Story,
In the Epistle called Ded'catory:
By a small nod my Lord assents he will,
Which does the scribling Wretch will pleasure fill:
Homeward he goes by studious Arts to raise,
For gilded Quality some tinsel Praise.

Nay too too oft do Men of Wit and Parts,
Well read in Men, in Languages and Arts,
Expose, for want of necessary Pence,
To monied Blockheads, their Immortal Sense;
Who by that Means acquire a lasting Fame,
And to Posterity transmit a Name;
Which in Oblivions Records else had stood,
With Names of Millions dead before the Flood.

'Mong Wonders to which Mony makes pretence,
'Tis strange it shou'd supply the want of Sense!
Yet is an Ideot by Fortune blest,
With a full Pocket, or a well cram'd Chest;
And by the means of his so large Increase,
Made Knight o'th Shire, or Justice of the Peace:
At Quarter-Sessions when he sits in State,
Among his Brethren, to Assess and Rate,
Tho nere so dull and flat, yet what he says,
Is of By-Standers sure to gain the Praise;
'Tis much if when their Commendations Swell,
They say not—Spoken like an Oracle.
Or if in mixt Converse, where Business, News,
Or other Talk does Company amuse,
The Man should chance to Interfere and Prate,
(For nothing noted but his great Estate)
If by the Hour he Nonsense should discourse,
(Than which there cannot be a greater Curse
In Conversation) yet they listen all,
And greedily snatch up the Words which fall
From's Mouth, as if they were in modern Sense,
The choicest Pearls and Flowers of Eloquence.
But if on him the Itch of Scribling seize,
And's labring Thoughts can never be at ease,
Till he in Print has to the World put forth,
A Piece (as he esteems) of mighty Worth,
Be th' Subject what it will of any kind,
It will not fail a vast Applause to find;
For there was ner'e a Scribling Monied Fop,
But found some greater Fool to cry him up;
If not much Prais'd, it will at least be said,
The Author wrote for Pleasure, not for Bread.
Is Verse the Subject? Tho' each Stanza chimes,
With as much Spirit as do Belmen's Rhimes;
Tho' ten times duller every Line appears,
Than Crowns late Dæneids, or John Bunyans Verse:
Yet his flat Nonsense will the World prefer,
Before the Lines of Cowley, Rochester,
Waller or Denham, or the late admir'd
Oldham, who wrote as with a Muse inspir'd.
If Politicks his empty Pages swell,
He understands much more than Matchivel;
And does from newer Principles derive ye
The grounds of Rule than Hobbs in Book de Cive:
Nay, he how far the very bounds can show,
Prerogative and Priviledge may go;
And he has often, tho' t'has been in's Power,
Declin'd the Place of Privy Councellor.
Does History amuse his idle Hours?
He does with more Solidity discourse
Of that grave Subject, than can ere be read,
In Works of Baker, Speed or Hollinshed.
If to mixt Subjects he his Pen applies,
What ere he writes is sure to find success;
His Flatterers will every thing admire,
Each Line, each Sentence, sets their Souls on fire;
All is Divine, there's not a Word amiss,
With joy they shake, and weep with tenderness:
By this his Vanity so high is flown,
He thinks no Works so shining as his own:
If you in number of his Friends he takes,
Of's Works to you he then a Present makes;
For which, as 'tis the Fashion now a days,
You must be sure the new Composure praise,
And tell him, that the sottish World had lain
In Ignorance, had not his Learned Pen
The Foggs their Reason clouded, soon dispell'd,
And with rich thoughts their empty judgments fil'd:
Tho after all it is these Scriblers fate,
(For little else but noisy Praise they get)
To have their very Works so much esteem'd,
By Flatterers, to be at last condemn'd,
To wrap up Spice, Tobacco, Soap and Plumbs,
Under Pyes put, or wipe the Readers B---s;
And thus each lofty Line, each mighty Thought,
Is to its final Execution brought.

If one by Fortune plac'd in low Degree,
Reduc'd to Want and needy Poverty,
Living in Country Village all alone,
His Name to Parish-Register scarce known,
Should by some strange and unexpected Fate,
Become the Heir to Mony or Estate,
And is, his part the better to maintain,
Ambitious to be thought a Gentleman;
Tho' by the ancient Stock from whence he came,
He was a Begger both by Sire and Dam;
Yet Learned Heralds can for Mony show,
From some rich Family he first did grow:
Tho, for some time it may have been obscure,
His Ancestors came in with th' Conqueror.
If store of Or and Argent he has got,
He shall not fail to have 'em in his Coat;
Tho' Dormant Couchant long his Name did rest,
He shall have Lyon Rampant for his Crest;
And if heel pay but briskly for the thing,
From John of Gaunt his Pedigree they'l bring:
Thus store of Mony and a vast Estate,
Can of a Clown a Gentleman create.

But now another Scene appears in view,
A Scene which known Experience says is true:
Suppose then Reader, that my Friend and I,
Ev'n in the days of Childish Infancy
Such Freedoms take, we afterwards improve,
To highest Offices of Friendly Love;
One Soul our diff'rent Bodies seems to move,
Alike we hate, alike approve, and love:
All lawful Pleasures we alike partake,
And each is free to Dye for t'others sake;
No Task thought difficult, nor Danger great,
May firmer Unions of our Souls create;
And what crowns all, we both have Mony store,
He vastly Rich, I far from being Poor.

But if by Fortune's strange capricious Spight,
On my Estate some sweeping Mischief light,
Some raging Fire my blooming Hopes prevent,
Or Loss by Sea, or other Accident
Strips me of all those Riches once I had,
My Diet mean, my self more meanly clad,
Pensive and Thoughtful all day long I walk,
And to my self in broken Murmurs talk,
Having no Comfort but this Thought alone,
Tho Fortune's fled, yet Friendship is not gone;
Unwilling yet of Friends to ask Relief,
For there's a kind of Modesty in Grief,
As yet within the compass of my Breast,
My Wants, my Troubles, and Afflictions rest;
Yet if at last my cruel Creditors,
Joyn all their Forces, and unite their Powers
To crush me, and by Serjeants rude Arrest,
I'm safely lockt in Ludgate's stony Chest;
But yet in Prison give my Thoughts some scope,
And entertain my self with starving Hope,
That my rich Friend, since now I stand in need,
Will prove a real, cordial Friend indeed;
I write; no Answer comes: I write ag'en,
Till I to Stumps have almost worn my Pen;
No Friend appears, my dying Hopes to cherish,
There I may Lye and Rot, and Starve and Perish;
At last, when I've more Messengers employ'd,
Then patient Job with their sad Tales anoy'd,
He sends—(for should himself in Person come,
He'd be Infected in a Prison-room)
And lets me know, that he is very sorry
From Walls of Stone, to hear my dismal Story,
But had poor luckless I two days before
Sent the sad News, he could with mighty store
Have eas'd my wants, and tho his heart was willing,
He could not now equip me with a Shilling;
For on the Morning of that very Day
I sent, he'd paid all's ready Cash away:
Or else—when he the Message has read o're,
Pretends he never heard my Name before:
Lord how I wonder who this Man should be,
That sends this sad complaining Note to me?
I knew indeed a Wealthy Man o'th Name,
But cannot guess the Person whence this came:
Tho' he and I a thousand times have try'd
Pleasures, when sailing with a Monied Tide,
But now my Person's utterly forgot,
And I in Gaol condemn'd alive to rot:
Strange Logick! Can the Walls of Prison frame,
And prove the same Man is not now the same?

But if by some most unexpected fate,
By some Friend's Death I'm left a good Estate,
And from Confinement sally once again,
Of my Acquaintance, what a mighty Train,
Who either shun'd or knew me not before,
Come cringing now, and wait upon my Door!
In Anti-Chamber wait till I shall rise,
And with their Wishes my good Fortune bless,
While each one strives to do what ere he can,
For me the fortunate, the happy Man;
With folding Arms my Body they entwine,
Their Fortunes, Services, their Souls are mine,
With winged haste at my Commands they run,
All court the Rising, none the Setting Sun.

If Gold in Friendship can such Wonders shew,
In Love, what strange amazing Things 'twil do?
Not Wit nor Vertue half so much can move,
As pow'rful Gold in Arts of making Love:
A thousand Accidents tempt Flesh and Blood,
But powerful Guinea cannot be withstood,
For 'tis a Truth which Mankind will confess,
That ready Mony speaks all Languages.
Am I than Æsop more deform'd in Shape,
A prating, chatt'ring, laughing, am'rous Ape,
And justly can pretend no other Sense,
But noisy Nonsense and Impertinence;
If I with Guineas have my Pockets Lind,
What signifies the Shape of Corps or Mind?
The Ladies will Adore any Person more,
Than that of Handsom F---g, heretofore.
I am their Dearest Dear, their Fubbs their Honey
Their Angels nay their very Heav'n for Mony:
I am more welcom to their Longing Arms,
Than is a Man possest with Thousand Charms,
Of Person, Birth, Wit, Valour, tho I want
Each Quality, I am their Darling Saint.
For Mony, Husbands will their Wives Decoy,
And teach 'em to Commit the Guilty Joy;
Ride out of Town, that the Gallant may come
To tast forbidden Pleasures in his Room.
And if he unawares should chance to be
Spectator of their Am'rous Privacy,
Is Deaf and Blind, and cannot hear nor see;
Nay some Obliging Cuckolds will do more,
Bring the Spark home and after hold the Door,
Think Horns no Shame, if Mony by them come,
And Boast and Glory in their Cuckoldom.
Mothers for this their Daughters will betray
To Man of Quality, if he but pay.
With Charming Guineas in the Ballance laid,
What a poor Trifle is a Maidenhead?
Tis found and lost, tis lost and found again,
As is the Cully found 'mongst monied Men:
To those will pay for such forbidden Crimes,
It shall be sold 'bove thirty sev'ral times,
And the crackt Girl more timerous appear,
Than Lucrece was when Tarquin Ravisht her.
Too well this Infamous deceit is known:
To the Lewd Bawds of this Luxurious Town,
When a Raw Country Girl away they lead,
And turn the Penny by her Maiden-head.

How many Jilts, Cracks, Prostitutes and Whores
Their Sexes scandal, Natures common Shores,
Are there in Town (sad Wretches as they are)
Who once were very vertuous, young and Fair?
And who had vertuous been this very Hour,
Had it not been for Gold's Almighty Power.
Gold first their Blindfold Reason led astray,
(For who its Mighty Power can disobey?
Gold to forbidden Paths First brought them in,
And Gold alone informd 'em how to Sin.

The Greatest Blessing which the God's have sent,
T'inrich Mankind withall, is True Content,
Which humble Poor as well as Rich enjoy;
Lifes only Cordial, Lifes true Solid Joy,
Yet this rare Jewel is too often Sold,
And ev'ry Day Exchang'd for Shining Gold.

Can it be thought an old Grey withered Sot,
Who has in's Grave one Foot already got,
With Palsies, Aches, Rheumes, and Gout opprest,
No Pith in's Back, nor Vigour in his Breast,
Can be a welcome Present to the Arms
Of a Young Creature blest with Thousand Charms?
Yet this we see is almost Daily done,
And fair young Phillis, by old Damon won;
Whilst other Shepherds Witty Gay and Young,
Who by her side have tun'd their Pipes and Sung,
Wanting the Blessing of a large Estate,
Which Settlement and Joynture may Create,
Are slighted—whilst the Youthful Charming Bride,
Lyes by an old Mans unperforming Side.

The Price of Beauty what Man does not know?
Alas the Value out is fallen so low,
Each petty Chapman now with Purse in Hand,
Has it at Minutes Warning to Command.
Women like Books and Pictures now a Days,
Are put to Sale, and who the Price can raise,
Not he whose Merits decently can Crave 'em,
No, no, the Lucky He bids most shall have 'em:
Youth, Wit and Valour will not now prevail:
But yet Almighty Mony cannot fail.

With what Impatience have I often seen,
A Youthful Bride, who never saw Eighteen,
Running with nimble haste to opening Door,
To meet her Good old Man of Sixty four,
Clap her Warm, Soft, Plump Rosy Cheek to his,
And nestle through his Beard to get a Kiss?
Play with her Hand upon his Grisly Chin,
And softly say, my Dear where have you been?
Well, you'r unkind, a Naughty Man I vow,
I thought you'd been at home two Hours agoe,
Dinner's quite spoil'd—But yet for you my Dear,
I have reserv'd some Lobsters and Caveir
I almost Longd to see you—He mean while,
For these Endearments can't afford a Smile,
But in his Clownish way says—you've your Will,
But Pleasure must give Place to Business still:
Gripewell and I have got this very Morning,
A thousand Pounds—a Sum not worth the Scorning,
And tho the Times are Cloudy like the Weather,
At honest Ned's took one half pint together.
Come come—and there perhaps he leads her in,
A Sight would almost tempt a Man to Sin,
And from him, since he values not the Pleasure,
To snatch the Lovely Young and Tempting Treasure.

For Mony thus will Virgins throw their Charms
Within the Circle of an Old Mans Arms;
Tho' Frost to Fruits, and Mildew to the Corn,
To Armour Rust, or Fits to Child new Born,
Cannot more Fatal and Destructive prove,
Than Age to Beauty, Impotence to Love:
Her youthful Heat new Blood in him inspires,
While he by's Coldness Damps her warmer Fires,
His aged Limbs do Gout or Palsie Rack;
She must by Sympathy his Ills partake,
Becoming in short time (a thing most Common)
A Sickly Pining Drooping old young Woman.

Shift we the Scene now to a close Alcove,
And see a youthful Spark pretending Love,
(For sure no Man can be so void of Sense
To think 'tis any thing but meer pretence)
To an old withered Beldam of threescore,
Of swelling Bags blest with a Numerous store:
What Mighty Wonders cannot Mony do?
Tho She Deform'd as Mother Shipton shew,
He Gripes her Palsied Hand, and vows and swears
No Beauty at the Court with her compares,
So soft her Skin, her Eyes such Lustre hold,
Nature design'd she never should grow old,
While she with Smiles, (which are indeed Grimace)
Adding more Wrinkles to her Wainscoat Face,
Half opening of her Mouth to her new Lover,
Fearing she should the want of Teeth discover,
Cries, truly Sir, I wonder you should spy,
One Charm in me to please your curious Eye:
I'm old, tis true, but yet there was a time,
Tho 'tis long since, when I was in my Prime:
This Face had Charms—Ah Madam! pray forbear,
Say not it had, they're still too plainly there,
Says he, and pushing on his am'rous Rage,
Tells her, that Wine and Beauty gain by Age.
She overcome, poor Thing, by his soft Words,
At last to take him for her Spouse affords:
To Church they go, on which the World may say
(That truly now December Weds with May;
While he receives a Pension during Life,
To Do the Drudg'ry of an old Rich Wife.

Twere Endless, should I but attempt to Run,
O're all the Miracles by Mony done.
What Mighty Magick is there in a Fee,
To turn the very Scales of Equity?
Wrong shall be Right, and Right again be Wrong,
If but with Gold you touch the Lawyers Tongue,
And the Coifd Serjeant, when at Barr he pleads,
Shall speak or true or false, as Guinea leads;
And Votes of Scarlet Judges bought and sold,
If purchased by the Mighty Power of Gold.

The Roman Church her self is not asham'd,
To say the Poor, (and only they) are Damn'd;
The Rich shall stay short time in Purgatory,
But no poor Wretch directly went to Glory:
No, he must fry in Purgatory Kitchin,
Till Mony can his Soul from thence be fetching.

No Colledge Doctor in his Guilded Coach,
The Cottages of Poor will ere approach.
Phisicians come not where there are no Fees,
None cure or plead in Forma pauperis.
Mony what Wonders can it not effect?
Who ever faild that had it, of Respect?
T'will make the Blind Man see, the Lame Man walk,
Make Deaf Men hear, and Dumb Men loudly talk;
T'will make an old Man have a youthful Skin,
And Beldams, old as Aldgate, not Sixteen;
Make Cowards Valiant, and make Blockheads Wise,
And from low Dunghills make th'ignoble Rise;
Get Pardons for, and Licences to Sin,
Tempt Virgins, and unwary Youth draw in;
Depress the Good and Vertuous with Disgrace,
And set up Vice to Lord it in their place:
But ah! what Pen its Miracles can tell,
Which Heaven purchases and saves from Hell?