SOme tell of Affrick Monsters, which of old
|
Vaine superstition did for Godheads hold.
|
How the Egyptians, who first knowledge sp[r]ed
|
Ador'd their Apis with the white Buls head:
|
Apis still fed with Serpents that do hisse,
|
Hamon, Osyris, Monster Anubis.
|
But sunburnt Affrick never had nor hath
|
A Monster like our English publicke Faith.
|
Those fed on snakes and satisfied did rest,
|
This like the Curtian gulfe will have the best
|
Thing in the City, to appease its still
|
Increasing hunger, glutting its lewd will
|
With families, whose substance it devours,
|
Perverting Justice and the higher powers
|
Contemning, without fear of any law,
|
Preying on all to fill its ravenous maw;
|
Whose Estridge stomack which no steel can sate
|
Has swallowed down Indies of gold and plate:
|
This is the publick Faith which being fed
|
Byth City's wealth, has in this Kingdome bred
|
Such various mischiefes with its viperous breath,
|
Blastings its peace and happinesse to death:
|
And yet this Idol which our world adores
|
Has made men prostitute their truth like whores
|
To its foule lust, which surely may as well
|
And soon be satisfied as the grave or hell:
|
This preys on Horses, yet that will not do,
|
Unlesse it may devoure the Riders too:
|
This takes up all the riches of the land,
|
Not by intreaty, but unjust command;
|
Borrowing extortively, without any day
|
But the Greek Calends, then it means to pay.
|
This 'gainst the law of Nations does surprise
|
The goods of strangers, Kings, and in its wise
|
Discretion, (thinks though its not worth their note)
|
They'r bound to take the publick Faiths trim vote
|
For their security, when this publick Faith
|
Has broke more Merchants then ere riot hath:
|
And yet, good men oth' City, you are proud
|
To have this bankerupt publick Faith alowd
|
More credit then your King: to this youl lend
|
More willingly then ever you did spend
|
Money to buy your wives and children bread;
|
By such a strange inchantment being misled
|
To your undoings, you (who upon bond)
|
Nay searsly upon morgage of that land
|
Treble your money's value, would not part
|
With your lov'd coine vanquished by th' powerful art.
|
Of this Magitian publick Faith justly install
|
Him master of your bags, the Divell and all
|
That taught you get them by deceitfull wares,
|
And sucking in (like mornings draughts) young heirs:
|
Well certainly if this fine humour hold
|
Your Aldermen will have no other gold
|
But whats in thumb rings for their pondrous chaines,
|
They'l be the publick Faiths just lawfull gains;
|
And have the honour afterwards to be
|
Hang'd in them for its publick treachery.
|
What will become of you then, grave and witty
|
Inhabitants of this inchanted City;
|
Who is't shall those vast sums to you repay
|