MONEY,
MONEY, my Hearts;
See here what Money do's! O Mighty Money!
He that has Money has but Evil's Root;
But he that has none has the Branches to boot.
To the Tune of High Boys up go we. Or, Jenny Gin.
Licensed according to Order.
|
GOod Folks look to your Purses,
|
whilst I of Money sing,
|
For 'tis the Curse of Curses,
|
the want of it do's bring:
|
But though you love your Money so,
|
yet sometimes for a Song,
|
You'll let some of your Money go,
|
or else I'm in the wrong.
|
Money makes the Mare to go,
|
it makes the Old Wife Trot;
|
Money is a Friend, a Foe,
|
and what do's Money not?
|
Money's an Almighty thing,
|
it makes the Rich to swagger,
|
And makes the only differing
|
betwixt a Prince and Beggar.
|
Money makes the Prodigal
|
unto the Usurer run,
|
For he has got the Devil and all,
|
and that's enough for one.
|
'Tis Money do's the Lover spur
|
when he would a Mistress catch;
|
'Tis not so much for love of her,
|
'tis Money makes the Match.
|
Money makes the Lass to do
|
what she ne'er did before;
|
The Gallant with kind words do's wooe,
|
but 'tis Money makes the Whore.
|
'Tis Money makes a Fop a Knight,
|
and makes the Lady fine,
|
Be she ugly, black as Night,
|
Money will make her shine,
|
Money is the Papist's Tool,
|
the Protestant's likewise;
|
'Twill make a Wise man of a Fool,
|
'tis his own Paradice.
|
Oh! Money is a precious thing,
|
from it all Comfort springs;
|
'Twill out of Purgatory bring
|
and pardon all your Sins.
|
Money of it self do's vaunt,
|
as Milk to Butter Churns;
|
For it a very Protestant
|
unto a Papist turns.
|
Money it do's Wonders work,
|
to it the Powers belong,
|
To make a Christian turn a Turk,
|
and make the Right the Wrong.
|
Money has made Towns to yield,
|
which Arms could never do;
|
Money is Master of the Field,
|
a King and General too:
|
More powerfull than he of France,
|
that mighty Western Turk;
|
When his Arms cannot advance,
|
then Money do's the Work.
|
Money makes your Tradesmen cheat,
|
the Soldiers kill and slay;
|
The Empiricks with their Patients meet
|
and Murther more than they.
|
The Lawyer snaps at ev'ry Hook,
|
halted with Money o'er.
|
The Popish Priest's a spiritual Rook,
|
still gaping after more.
|
Money's a Justice of the Peace,
|
and a Peace-breaker too,
|
If you'll have Justice you must grease,
|
or sometimes 'twill not do.
|
'Tis a Peace-breaker eke I say,
|
Love lasts whilst there is store;
|
But when all's gone, begins a Fray,
|
and then 'tis Rogue and Whore.
|
Money it is ('tis often spoke)
|
a wond'rous Charm, no doubt;
|
I have a penny in my poke,
|
to keep the Devil out;
|
If then, he dares not to appear,
|
where any Coin do's dwell,
|
And where there's none the Devil's there,
|
an empty Pocket's Hell.
|
|
|
|
|
|