The True-Born Englishman
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HIS FINE SPEECH, &c
With clouted iron shoes, and sheep-skin breeches,More rags than manners, and more dirt than riches,From driving cows and calves to Leyton market,While of my greatness there appear'd no spark yet,Behold I come to let you see the pride,With which exalted beggars always ride.Born to the needful labours of the plough,The cart-whip graced me, as the chain does now.Nature and fate in doubt what course to take,Whether I should a lord or plough-boy make;Kindly at last resolv'd they would promote me,And first a knave, and then a knight they vote me.What fate appointed, nature did prepare,And furnish'd me with an exceeding care,To fit me for what they design'd to have me;And every gift but honesty they gave me.And thus equipp'd, to this proud town I came,In quest of bread, and not in quest of fame.Blind to my future fate, an humble boy,Free from the guilt and glory I enjoy.The hopes which my ambition entertain'd,Where in the name of foot-boy, all contain'd.The greatest heights from small beginnings rise;The gods were great on earth, before they reach'd the skies.Backwell, the generous temper of whose mind,Was always to be bountiful inclin'd:Whether by his ill fate or fancy led,First took me up, and furnish'd me with bread:The little services he put me to,Seem'd labours, rather than were truly so.But always my advancement he design'd;For 'twas his very nature to be kind:Large was his soul, his temper ever free;The best of masters and of men to me:And I who was before decreed by fate,To be made infamous as well as great,With an obsequious diligence obey'd him,Till trusted with his all, and then betray'd him.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 ingratitude.Ingratitude'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'nOn 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, nobly did advanceHis Master's fall, for his inheritance:By whose keen arts old David first beganTo break his sacred oath to Jonathan:The good old king 'tis thought was very lothTo 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 contentWith 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,God 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,1 who printed in my faceA needful competence of English brass;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 declareAgainst 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 whore 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.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 END1
The Devil.