The True-Born Englishman Part 4

All his past kindnesses I trampled on, Ruin'd his fortunes to erect my own: So vipers in the bosom bred begin, To hiss at that hand first which took them in; With eager treach'ry I his fall pursu'd, And my first trophies were ingrat.i.tude.

Ingrat.i.tude's the worst of human guilt, The basest action mankind can commit; Which, like the sin against the Holy Ghost, Has least of honour, and of guilt the most; Distinguished from all other crimes by this, That 'tis a crime which no man will confess; That sin alone, which should not be forgiv'n On earth, altho' perhaps it may in heaven.

Thus my first benefactor I o'erthrew; And how shou'd I be to a second true?

The public trust came next into my care, And I to use them scurvily prepare: My needy sov'reign lord I play'd upon, And lent him many a thousand of his own; For which great interest I took care to charge, And so my ill-got wealth became so large.

My predecessor Judas was a fool, Fitter to have been whipt and sent to school, Than sell a Saviour: had I been at hand, His Master had not been so cheap trepann'd; I would have made the eager Jews have found, For thirty pieces, thirty thousand pound.

My cousin Ziba, of immortal fame, (Ziba and I shall never want a name:) First-born of treason, n.o.bly did advance His Master's fall, for his inheritance: By whose keen arts old David first began To break his sacred oath to Jonathan: The good old king 'tis thought was very loth To break his word, and therefore broke his oath.

Ziba's a traitor of some quality, Yet Ziba might have been inform'd by me: Had I been there, he ne'er had been content With half th' estate, nor half the government.

In our late revolution 'twas thought strange, That I of all mankind should like the change, But they who wonder'd at it never knew, That in it I did my old game pursue: Nor had they heard of twenty thousand pound, Which ne'er was lost, yet never could be found.

Thus all things in their turn to sale I bring, G.o.d and my master first, and then the king; Till by successful villanies made bold, I thought to turn the nation into gold; And so to forgery my hand I bent, Not doubting I could gull the Government; But there was ruffl'd by the Parliament.

And if I 'scaped th' unhappy tree to climb, 'Twas want of law, and not for want of crime;

But my old friend,[A] who printed in my face A needful competence of English bra.s.s; Having more business yet for me to do, And loth to lose his trusty servant so, Managed the matter with such art and skill, As sav'd his hero, and threw out the Bill.

And now I'm grac'd with unexpected honours, For which I'll certainly abuse the donors: Knighted, and made a tribune of the people, Whose laws and properties I'm like to keep well: The custos rotulorum of the city, And captain of the guards of their banditti.

Surrounded by my catchpoles, I declare Against the needy debtor open war.

I hang poor thieves for stealing of your pelf, And suffer none to rob you, but myself.

The king commanded me to help reform ye, And how I'll do't, Miss ---- shall inform ye.

I keep the best seraglio in the nation, And hope in time to bring it into fashion; No brimstone wh.o.r.e need fear the lash from me, That part I'll leave to Brother Jefferey: Our gallants need not go abroad to Rome, I'll keep a whoring jubilee at home; Whoring's the darling of my inclination; An't I a magistrate for reformation?

For this my praise is sung by ev'ry bard, For which Bridewell wou'd be a just reward.

In print my panegyric fills the street, And hired gaol-birds their huzzas repeat; Some charities contriv'd to make a show, Have taught the needy rabble to do so; Whose empty noise is a mechanic fame, Since for Sir Beelzebub they'd do the same.

[Footnote A: The Devil.]

THE CONCLUSION.

Then let us boast of ancestors no more, Or deeds of heroes done in days of yore, In latent records of the ages past, Behind the rear of time, in long oblivion plac'd; For if our virtues must in lines descend, The merit with the families would end, And intermixtures would most fatal grow; For vice would be hereditary too; The tainted blood would of necessity, Involuntary wickedness convey.

Vice, like ill-nature, for an age or two, May seem a generation to pursue; But virtue seldom does regard the breed, Fools do the wise, and wise men fools succeed.

What is't to us, what ancestors we had?

If good, what better? or what worse, if bad?

Examples are for imitation set, Yet all men follow virtue with regret.

Could but our ancestors retrieve their fate, And see their offspring thus degenerate; How we contend for birth and names unknown, And build on their past actions, not our own; They'd cancel records, and their tombs deface, And openly disown the vile degenerate race: For fame of families is all a cheat, It's personal virtue only makes us great.

THE END.