WRITTEN IN THE YEAR M.DC.LXII.
As needy gallants, in the scriv'ner's hands,
Court the rich knaves that gripe the mortgag'd lands,
The first fat buck of all the season's sent,
And keeper takes no fee in compliment;
The dotage of some Englishmen is such
To fawn on those who ruin them, the Dutch.
They shall have all, rather than make a war
With those who of the same religion are.
The Streights, the Guinea trade, the herrings too;
Nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you.
Some are resolv'd not to find out the cheat,
But, cuckold-like, love them that do the feat.
What injuries soe'er upon us fall,
Yet still the same religion answers all.
Religion wheedled us to Civil war,
Drew English blood, and Dutchmen's now would spare.
Be gull’d no longer; for you'll find it true,
They have no more religion, faith! than you.
Int’rest's the god they worship in their State,
And we I take it have not much of that.
Well monarchies may own religion's name,
But states are atheists in their very frame.
They share a sin; and such proportions fall,
That, like a stink, 'tis nothing to them all,