Part 20

Crimes are not punish’d ’cause they’re crimes, But cause they’re low and little: Mean men for mean faults in these times Make satisfaction to tittle; While those in office and in power Boldly the underlings devour, Our cobweb laws can’t hold ’em; They sell for many a thousand crown Things which were never yet their own, And this is law and custom grown, ’Cause those do judge who sold ’em.

Brothers still with brothers brawl, And for trifles sue ’em; For two pronouns that spoil all Contentious meum and tuum. The wary lawyer buys and builds While the client sells his fields To sacrifice his fury; And when he thinks t’ obtain his right, He’s baffled off or beaten quite By the judge’s will, or lawyer’s slight, Or ignorance of the jury.

See the tradesman how he thrives With perpetual trouble: How he cheats and how he strives, His estate t’ enlarge and double; Extort, oppress, grind and encroach, To be a squire and keep a coach, And to be one o’ th’ quorum; Who may with’s brother-worships sit, And judge without law, fear, or wit, Poor petty thieves, that nothing get, And yet are brought before ’em.

And his way to get all this Is mere dissimulation; No factious lecture does he miss, And ’scape no schism that’s in fashion: But with short hair and shining shoes, He with two pens and note-book goes, And winks and writes at random; Thence with short meal and tedious grace, In a loud tone and public place, Sings wisdom’s hymns, that trot and pace As if Goliah scann’d ’em.

But when Death begins his threats, And his conscience struggles To call to mind his former cheats, Then at Heaven he turns and juggles: And out of all’s ill-gotten store He gives a dribbling to the poor; An hospital or school-house; And the suborn’d priest for his hire Quite frees him from th’ infernal fire, And places him in th’ angel’s quire: Thus these Jack-puddings fool us!

All he gets by’s pains i’ th’ close, Is, that he dy’d worth so much; Which he on’s doubtful seed bestows, That neither care nor know much: Then fortune’s favourite, his heir, Bred base and ignorant and bare, Is blown up like a bubble: Who wondering at’s own sudden rise, By pride, simplicity, and vice, Falls to his sports, drink, drabs, and dice, And make all fly like stubble.

And the Church, the other twin, Whose mad zeal enraged us, Is not purified a pin By all those broils in which th’ engaged us: We our wives turn’d out of doors, And took in concubines and whores, To make an alteration; Our pulpitors are proud and bold, They their own wills and factions hold, And sell salvation still for gold, And here’s our reformation!

’Tis a madness then to make Thriving our employment, And lucre love for lucre’s sake, Since we’ve possession, not enjoyment: Let the times run on their course, For oppression makes them worse, We ne’er shall better find ’em; Let grandees wealth and power engross, And honour, too, while we sit close, And laugh and take our plenteous dose Of sack, and never mind ’em.

UPON THE GENERAL PARDON PASSED BY THE RUMP.

From a broadside in the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum. After Cromwell’s victory at Worcester, he prevailed on the Parliament to pass a general, or quasi-general, amnesty for all political offences committed prior to that time.

REJOICE, rejoice, ye Cavaliers, For here comes that dispels your fears; A general pardon is now past, What was long look’d for, comes at last.

It pardons all that are undone; The Pope ne’er granted such a one: So long, so large, so full, so free, Oh what a glorious State have we!

Yet do not joy too much, my friends, First see how well this pardon ends; For though it hath a glorious face, I fear there’s in’t but little grace.

’Tis said the mountains once brought forth,— And what brought they? a mouse, in troth; Our States have done the like, I doubt, In this their pardon now set out.

We’ll look it o’er, then, if you please, And see wherein it brings us ease: And first, it pardons words, I find, Against our State—words are but wind.

Hath any pray’d for th’ King of late, And wish’d confusion to our State? And call’d them rebels? He may come in And plead this pardon for that sin.

Has any call’d King Charles that’s dead A martyr—he that lost his head? And villains those that did the fact? That man is pardon’d by this Act.

Hath any said our Parliament I such a one as God ne’er sent? Or hath he writ, and put in print, That he believes the devil’s in’t?

Or hath he said there never were Such tyrants anywhere as here? Though this offence of his be high, He’s pardon’d for his blasphemy.

You see how large this pardon is, It pardons all our Mercuries, {37} And poets too, for you know they Are poor, and have not aught to pay.

For where there’s money to be got, I find this pardon pardons not; Malignants that were rich before, Shall not be pardon’d till they’re poor.

Hath any one been true to th’ Crown, And for that paid his money down, By this new Act he shall be free, And pardon’d for his loyalty.

Who have their lands confiscate quite, For not compounding when they might; If that they know not how to dig, This pardon gives them leave to beg.

Before this Act came out in print, We thought there had been comfort in’t; We drank some healths to the higher powers, But now we’ve seen’t they’d need drink ours.

For by this Act it is thought fit That no man shall have benefit, Unless he first engage to be A rebel to eternity.

Thus, in this pardon it is clear That nothing’s here and nothing’s there: I think our States do mean to choke us With this new Act of hocus pocus.

Well, since this Act’s not worth a pin, We’ll pray our States to call it in, For most men think it ought to be Burnt by the hand of Gregory.

Then, to conclude, here’s little joy For those that pray Vive le Roy! But since they’ll not forget our crimes, We’ll keep our mirth till better times.