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The School of Politicks

or, the humours of a coffee-house: a poem. The Second Edition Corrected and much Enlarged by the Author [i.e. Edward Ward]
  

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XX.

[Mean while the Tax Collectors enter in]

Mean while the Tax Collectors enter in,
Demanding Money for the King,
At sight of which one who began to grin,
Did thus his most judicious Censures fling.

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Cries on, I think the Parliament are mad
To tax us thus; we shall e'er long
Not know to whom our Souls belong;
Nay 'tis reported they prepare
A Bill to regulate our Fare:
And none without accustom'd Fees
Shall eat of Licens'd Bread and Cheese;
For—
—Hold, Sir, cries another Man,
E'er farther in your Nonsense you go on;
What to the Taxes have you paid,
Or given to the Royal Aid?
If I mistake not, you're no more
Than Journeyman t'a Shoe-maker,
And yet your Little Worship must complain,
But 'twould, alas! be but in vain
To preach Sense to thy cloudy Brain;
Or else, 't might be evinc'd that none
In Europe's large Dominions are so free
From griping Taxes of the Purse as we;
Besides, what in that Nature's done,
Is the effect of meer Necessity,
Shall th'King his Person for our sakes expose,
And we our little Aids refuse?
They're worse than Infidels and Jews,
Who out of Complaisance to Purse,
Their future Happiness will lose,
And on Posterity entail a Curse.