THE
Destruction of Plain Dealing:
OR,
Poor Conscience cast out of Countenance by the unjust Practitioners of this present
Age; as, Clippers and counterfit Coiners, who strives to Wrong the Nation for private
Gain. To the Tune of, O Desperate Folly, etc.
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POor Conscience unregarded lies,
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in sorrow and grief we find,
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Her melting tears and mournful cries,
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there's few in this Age will mind;
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Good Conscience was never so slighted before,
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As now she is here, through the Nation all oe'r,
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We find she's rejected and kickt out of door;
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Oh, cruelty, desperate cruelty,
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Ne'er was the like before.
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All kind of fraud a wickedness
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does every day abound,
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Thus righteous Laws we do transgress,
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and Conscience, alass, we wound,
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Nay stifle her likewise from telling the truth,
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Because that young Gallants and Ladies, forsooth,
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They scorn to be told of the sins of their youth;
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Oh, wickedness, desperate wickedness,
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What an Age we live in!
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Some Men may sense and learning have,
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exceeding of common schools,
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Yet if they will not play the knave,
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they shall be accounted fools;
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We find that all sherking and sharping is made
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By Burmigem Coiners an absolute trade,
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Who by their false dealings goes richly array'd;
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Oh, wickedness, desperate wickedness.
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Ne'er was the like e'er known.
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Were we to search the Nation through,
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we should not find one in ten,
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Right honest, upright, just and true,
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no creature so false as Men,
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Who daily endeavour to sharp one another,
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The uncle, the cousin, the sister, the brother,
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Thus Conscience, there's 1000's will stifle & smo-ther,
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Oh, wickedness, desperate wickedness,
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Conscience is laid aside.
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Alas, the World is so unjust,
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and false in their dealings here;
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That one cannot another trust,
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as plainly it does appear;
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For let us look round us on every hand,
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And then to our grief we shall soon understand,
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There's nothing but sharping all over the land;
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Oh, wickedness, desperate wickedness,
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Conscience is laid aside.
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The Clippers by their filing trade,
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does every neighbour bite;
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For half-crown peices they are made
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near seventeen pence too light;
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Tho' every Sessions those villains are try'd,
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And many to Tyburn on Sledges do ride,
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Yet others will not lay the calling aside;
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Oh, wickedness, desperate wickedness,
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Poor Conscience is still abus'd.
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Likewise those sharping villains coin,
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both Iron and perfect Brass,
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Which having wash'd and made it fine,
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it does for good Sterling pass;
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At length it falls into the hands of the Poor,
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Who has not a shilling to comfort them more,
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This must be a sorrow which troubles them sore;
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Oh, wickedness, desperate wickedness,
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Conscience is laid aside.
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Our very Farthings they did meet
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with counterfit Stamps, and they
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Did in the Nation thousands cheat,
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but now they have lost the day:
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The Vitlars flagons and pots went to wrack,
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When Mettle for coining those villains did lack,
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But faith now their calling is not worth a jack;
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Now Farthings, counterfit Farth[i]ngs,
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They will no longer go.
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