The London-Spy Compleat In Eighteen Parts :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Monster that progressively is Bred,
To raise his Fortunes by the Tippling Trade,
(As oft they are) must be of Spurious Race,
Begot by Chance within the Bounds of Grace:
Born of some Lustful Wench, who could not stay
Till Fortune flung a Husband in her way;
First Dropt, and then Preserv'd at Parish Pay.
Or else brought up on Pack-Horse from the North,
Born there of Parents who were nothing worth;

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Sent up to Town, as thousands were before,
To Nick and Froth, and Learn the Double Score.
The Northern Sharpness in his Rural Face,
Soon recommends the Stripling to a Place:
Where by some thriving Country-man he's taught,
To Cheat the Guests of ev'ry Quart, a Draught.

Thus when a Seven Years Practice he has made,
And Learn'd Each Knavish Myst'ry of his Trade,
Some labouring Drudge with Twenty Pounds he meets,
Who longs to Dance the shaking of the sheets,
With her he couples and improves his Pence,
With his own hoarded Fools Benevolence;
Who great as Kings, when Drunk do often Grant,
Those Boons to Tapsters which themselves most want.
Then takes a House, hangs up a Yorshire Sign,
New Paints the Door-Case, makes the Lettice fine.

Thus enter'd, such sharp Measures does he take,
By which he thrives whilst twenty Tradesmen break.
At first Industrious as an Indian Slave,
Close as a Miser, Cunning as a Knave;
Humble and Fawning, as a Pedlars Cur,
And to each Cobler Answers, Coming Sir.
His Bread and Cheese he frankly does impart,
And ev'ry thing is done with all his Heart.
Porters are Welcome near the Fire to sit,
And may Command; the Varlet can submit.
Without Offence Red-Herrings they may Broil,
And tattle o'er their Pot a wond'rous while.
Himself will on a Neigh'bring Errand run;
What e'er you speak for in a trice is done.
If Guests desire to keep 'em up till late,
Both without Grumbling will their Leisure wait;
No frowning from the Tike, or maundring from his

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Thus are they careful to oblige at first,
But as they thrive, like Curs, they grow more Curst.
Full Cellars and full Pockets change the Scene,
And make the Lout a Prince, his Drab a Queen.
The Cobbler then must at a distance keep,
And Porters with their Hats in Hand must creep,
No Frape must hover o'er the Kitchen Fire,
They no such Paultry Company do desire:
Sit up, you Fellow, move your Seat you Clown;
And let my Master Such a one sit down.
Pray Troop, I keep a Publick House 'tis true;
But do not light my Fires for such as you.

In comes a Neiphb'ring Servant for some Ale,
Pray dash it with a little drop of Stale:
I've brought no Money you must set it down:
The Maids thus Answer'd by the Surly Clown:
Pray tell your Master I shall draw no more,
Until he comes or sends to clear his Score;
I'd rather in my Cellar keep my Beer,
Than send it out on Trust I know not where.
Perhaps some Neighb'ring Tradesmen next appear:
Where shall we be to Drink a Pot of Beer?
Can't we go up? No Marry, says the Quean,
None has been Up Stairs since the Room was Clean.
Here Boy the Bell, or else the Kitchen show,
Good Gentlemen, I'm sure, have sat below.
Nay, if we can't go up, we will not stay,
I'll warrant we'll find Houses where we may.
We do not want your Custom, you mistake,
Pray troop, one Swallow won't a Summer make.

Thus is the Baseness of their Nature shown,
No sooner Prosperous but Imperious grown:

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By Wealth made Sawcy, by Misfortune Cow'd;
When Poor, too Humble, and when Rich, too Proud.

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Of a Cunning-Man.

Poor Taylors, Weavers, Shooe-makers and such,
Little in Trade, and think they know too much,
Are the chief Sensless Bigots that advance
A foolish Whim to further Ignorance:
Buoy'd up by Chance-Success would things fore-know,
Aim to be Wise, and still more Fooolish grow;
Peep twenty Years at Stars, at Sun and Moon,
And prove themselves but Ideots when they've done.
Then finding by Experience they are lost,
In that True Knowledge which they fain wou'd boast,
They draw in Fools to pay for th'time their Study Cost.
All their whole Art consists in Barren Words,
Meer Sound, but no True Argument affords:

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On a Faint shadow do they all relye,
What few believe, and none can justifie.
Mars by Heroick Actions got a Name,
Venus for Beauty and her Whoredom, Shame;
Mercury for Speed was famous, and for Theft,
And now most bad, when by himself be's left:
Good, if well mixt, like Hair amongst the Loom,
If not, he's Fatal to the Native's Doom:
So to the rest such Influence they ascribe,
As we, they say, by Nature's Course imbibe.
'Tis true, the Persons whence the Name's deriv'd,
Were Whores, and Thieves, and Heroes whilst they liv'd.
But these Bright Planets which surround the Earth,
Had the same Force and Power before their Birth:
E'er they were Christen'd they were still the same,
At first a part o'th' Universal Frame,
And do no Influence borrow from an Empty Name.
Mars can no Heroe by his Aspect make,
Nor Venus force a Virgin to forsake
Her Vertue; nor can Mercury prevail
On happy unstain'd Innocence to steal:
No, no, 'tis Education makes us fit
To Virtuous Live, or to Base means submit.
All their pretended Impulse is a Quacking Cheat.
Only upheld by Knaves, believ'd by Fools:
The first their Workmen, and the last their Tools:
All their Pretences are but empty show,
Wise would they seem, but still they nothing know,
Instead of Reason, which all Art defines,
Their Brains are fill'd with Planets, Orbs, and Signs;
Their knowledge little, their Gray Hairs but Green;
Their Learning less, and their Profession mean:
Their Conversation dull, each sensless word,
Is humbly Paid to some Ascendant Lord:

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A Globe's their Sign; in Alleys do they dwell,
And tho' Fools think they've Conference with Hell,
Do all things know; yet little Truth can tell,

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Informing Constables, and other Informers

Do most thro' Int'rest, and but few thro' Zeal,
Betwixt the Laws and the Offender deal.
Poor Sinners may their Persecution Fear,
As Cozening Bakers do a strict Lord-Mayor.
But the Gay Curtezan who Trades for Gold,
That can but grease a Palm when she's in bold,
No Justice need she dread, or Bridewel fear;
But without danger Sin from Year to Year.
Or need the Mony'd Libertine e'er see,
The Awful Brows of Stern Authority:
But Drink and Swear till weary of his Vice,
Would he Sin on at an Informers Price:
Who chose their Pious Office for its Gain,
To dwell upon the Sins of other Men:
Not with a good Intent to Vice reclaim,
Or bring Offenders into open shame.
Few do we see that are Examples made,
But the poor Strumpet, or the starving Blade,
Who wanting Money, do the Scourge endure,
Not punish'd for their Vice, but being Poor.

Vice deserves Publick Punishment, 'tis true,
But those that Live upon the Ills I do,
And on my Failings for their Bread relye,
Do what good Mortals cannot justifie.
If the Poor Harlot shall her Soul Betray,
For Money, which Informers take away

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To let her go; it is the Worlds Belief,
The Receiver's full as guilty as the Thief.

If I by chance am Drunk, or should I Swear,
The Man that does against me Witness bear,
Purely to share the Money in my Purse.
I'm bad 'tis true, but such a Knave is worse.
If what he does is with a true Intent,
Of bringing Vice to Shame and Punishment;
And well considers if himself be free,
From all those Failings he Condemns in me:
If not, 'tis not true Zeal, but Impudence,
For him t'Accuse the Offender of Offence;
The Hangman more may say in his Defence.
Those Vermin who for Interest do engage,
To dabble in the Vices of the Age;
By subtle means draw silly Creatures in,
And Devil-like, first tempt 'em to the Sin:
No sooner gain'd the Wanton Dames Consent,
But Drag the Wretch away to Punishment,
Less she has Money; or if none, agree
To Pawn her Cloaths to purchase Liberty.
Such are the Scum that do the Town Infect,
Much worse than those they've hired to Detect:
Some loose Shabroon in Bawdy-Houses Bred,
By others Vices like their own are Fed.
A Scoundrel Crew, that o'er the City swarm,
Who by false Accusations do more harm
To Guiltless Persons, fearful to dispute,
Than all the sorry Jilts they Persecute.
If heedless Youth in an Ill House they find,
Dropt in as Strangers, and no Ill design'd,
Void of Offence; yet Bribe to be let go,
Fearing their Masters or their Friends shou'd know:
What is it less in him that takes the Fee,
Than picking Pockets by Authoritie?

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What Moral Zealot Justly can afford,
To Mercenary Shammocks one good Word,
Who live by Filthy means like Flies upon a T---d.